Life vs Charlie Part II: Topsy Turvy
by FraidyCat
Summary: An equal opportunity whumping, or as close as I can get. Warning: Character Death
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Life vs. Charlie Part II: Topsy Turvy**

**Author: FraidyCat; Collaboration Kudos to The Silent Rumble**

**Genre: Drama, Angst**

**Time line: Any Time is Good For Me**

**Summary: An equal opportunity whumping (or as close as I can get)**

**Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Drat the luck.**

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**Chapter 1**

By all rights, Charlie should be happy. He should be feeling fine. Was it just this morning that he was?

Only a month into fall semester, less than five months since surgery for a perforated ulcer that nearly killed him, he was still feeling relaxed after taking the summer off.

Well, not completely off, exactly. But he hadn't taught during either summer session, and he hadn't even set foot on campus for two months. He had worked a lot on his own cognitive emergence theory, and had even researched and written an article for one of the math journals…but he had also gone hiking with Larry for five days in the Sierras, without his laptop. He had played golf with his father at least once a week, and while he still wasn't very good at it, he was actually starting to legitimately enjoy it.

He and Don had taken a long weekend in Las Vegas — they had only managed that because Don was actually helping the Vegas FBI office implement a new inservice training schedule modeled after L.A.'s. Still, the brothers had netted some quality time at the tables, taken in a few shows. Don, busy as ever, hadn't been over for dinner as much during the summer — mostly because he was actively pursuing a relationship with Cecile, one of the nurses who had taken care of Charlie in the hospital. Once Alan had figured out why they were seeing less of Donnie, he just sat around and smiled a lot.

Charlie had attended a symposium for a week at MIT, sitting in the crowd of teachers on their summer breaks. He hadn't even presented a paper. There had been time between sessions to renew old acquaintances. There had been free evenings.

There had been Amita.

It had been a year since she had accepted the job offer from Harvard, and while they had shared the occasional e-mail or phone call, it had been an awkward year. Finding himself with free time so near Harvard, Charlie had appeared late one afternoon in one of her physics classes, sitting near the back of the huge auditorium and marveling at the teacher she had become. When the class was over and the students filed out, he waited. She got together her papers, glanced toward the shadow she sensed in the back of the room, recognized him — and burst into tears. Amita had been humiliated at her uncharacteristic show of emotion. Charlie had been a little overwhelmed by it himself. Yet they ended up spending every evening together the week he was there, and had reached a new place in their relationship.

Actually, that wasn't quite right, either. What they had done was reclaim their friendship. The awkwardness of "what might have been" gave way to the solid core of mutual respect and admiration that had always been there. The only uncomfortable moments of the week had been because of the Eastern school head hunters who haunted the symposium, all trying to convince Dr. Charles Eppes that he was wasting himself at Cal Sci, and should be part of the Ivy League again. MIT itself. Princeton. Yale. Harvard — although to be fair, that offer had probably come in response to the one from Yale. Those two schools would do anything to one-up each other — even create a position for a math instructor they didn't really need. No matter. He was happy where he was, it was easy to tell them all "No" — and he and Amita were friends, again. Their e-mails and phone calls since that week had become much more frequent and natural.

Back in L.A., he had only worked on two cases for Don, and he had refused all other consulting offers. Well, more accurately, he had talked them all into waiting. For him, it was a slow summer — and it was wonderful. He was ready to start teaching again when fall semester began in late September, and now, he was enjoying his favorite time of year. Almost Halloween, streets and lawns gathering gold and russet leaves from the trees that hung over them, and the last two days had seen serious rainfall. Charlie loved the smell of rain in the fall. He had never analyzed it — which was unusual enough — but it was different from rain any other time of the year. Rain seemed to belong to the fall, somehow. He listened to it pound on the roof, and what would depress him at any other time of the year brought him peace, in the fall.

So by all rights, he should be happy.

Instead, he sat in his office in the growing dusk, stared at the data on his laptop, and was terrified.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Don wandered around the crime scene, counting bodies, and hoped that Charlie could make some sense out of what they had found on the computers at yesterday's scene, and the one last week. Each member of the family here — both parents, the two little girls — all of the bodies had been branded in the same way as the bodies at those other two scenes. An obvious connection. He tore his eyes away from the tiny blonde and sought out Colby. Maybe he had found a computer here, too. There could be more data for Charlie.

He found Colby in a small office, and sure enough, he stood over a computer with one of the CSI techs. Don was about to ask what they had when he felt the cell phone on his waist vibrate. He ripped it off his belt and flipped it open without looking at the call display.

"Eppes."

"Don…I think…I think you'd better come over here."

Don frowned. "Charlie, I'm at a crime scene right now. Looks like it's connected to what you've been working on for us, and there's another computer here. We'll have some more data for you soon."

His brother took a breath, but it didn't make his voice any steadier. "No, really, Don. I don't need any more data. The data is a smokescreen. I need you to come over here now."

Don wandered for the far side of the room, where there was less activity and noise. "What is it? You've got something already?"

"Yes. Yes, I…I really think you should come."

Charlie was starting to freak Don out a little. "You still at school? This crime scene is close. I'm actually only five minutes away."

"Yes. I'm…going up to the roof of the math building right now, though. I've been running an experiment up there with one of my freshman classes, and I need to bring it in. It's starting to rain harder, again. Just wait in my office if I'm not back by the time you get here…"

Charlie sounded like he wanted to say something more. Don headed for his SUV, balancing the phone between his neck and ear and using both hands to snap his jacket closed against the rain. "Charlie?"

This time Charlie sounded a little scared. "Um…Don…who knows I have this data? Besides the team, I mean."

Don ran into Megan in the driveway and spoke to her over the cell, taking it again in his hand. "Charlie's got something," he said, and she nodded. He opened the door of the SUV and concentrated on Charlie again. "What? It's an open investigation, Buddy, any number of people could know…we've used our CSIs, the DNA lab, computer tech lab…why?"

Charlie sighed a little. "Never mind. Just come over, okay?"

Don started the engine. "On the way, Buddy," he said, and he flipped the phone shut again.

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Charlie sat at the desk a moment after Don disconnected, undecided. His brother was on the way here, so the kind of precautions Charlie felt in his gut he should take regarding the data were probably unnecessary. He was probably getting all freaked out over nothing. Don would explain it.

He started to rise and go to the roof, then sat down again and opened his top desk drawer, rummaging around until he found a couple of thumb drives and some of the Cal Sci bubble envelopes he kept around for mailing disks. Quickly, he saved the data in two parts on the thumb drives — one would make no sense without the other. Then he ran an encryption program he had designed himself over the entire unit of information and e-mailed it off to Don's home e-mail. This was ridiculous — Don would be angry when he got here and Charlie told him they had to go to his apartment to see what he had to show him — and Charlie hesitated again. In the end, he decided the feeling in his gut was definitely not his ulcer — it had only been an hour since he had something to eat — and he quickly addressed the envelopes while his laptop followed his command to erase all the information he had worked on so painstakingly this afternoon. Charlie then automatically ran his defrag program over the partition of the disk he saved for FBI-related work. All material gained during any FBI investigation was always sensitive, and he had long ago developed the habit of extra security measures.

While the defrag program still ran, he left his office and walked to the department secretary's office. He dropped one envelope into the intracampus mail slot, the other into off-campus outgoing mail. Then he turned and headed the other direction, to take the stairs to the roof.

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Dr. Anne Kincaid enjoyed having her office located in the old section of the second floor in the math & sciences building. Two years from retirement, it was the same office she had claimed for almost 40 years. She knew how to hit the old-fashioned radiator in the winter for more heat. She knew how to take the screen off the window so that she could open it out, away from the building, and let the air circulate in the spring and summer, as it was intended. If the occasional bug came in, well, that was what fly swatters were for, right? Several years ago administration had stopped trying to talk her into relocating her office, and maintenance had stopped trying to talk her into leaving the screen on the window.

This afternoon she heard the rain start pounding against the window again, and she rose from her desk to turn and open it. So a few things might get wet. So what. Small price to pay for the fresh smell a fall rain would bring into her office.

Pushing the window out as far as it would go, Dr. Kincaid turned back to her desk in time to see that curly headed young man pass her office, and heard him open the door to the stairwell, located just a few feet away. He must be going up one flight, to the roof again. She rolled a new sheet of paper into her IBM Selectric and thought about that boy. She knew that Cal Sci considered keeping him a coup — he was rather gifted at mathematics, even she had to admit that — but this experiment he did every fall with his freshman class on the roof was a bit unorthodox. Something about weather and storms and lightning — all rather Ben Franklin-esque. She started to type, soothed by the solid clicks made by each keystroke, and wondered again why they all preferred computers, now. She thought of the young doctor again. Yes, he was as addicted to computers as the rest of them — but at least he still knew what chalk was. He kept an actual black board among the white and clear boards in his office, and seemed to enjoy conducting classes in the old lecture halls…and she often saw streaks of chalk dust in his hair. She sighed. Unless, of course, even the young doctor was getting old. Maybe he had gray hair now…

Rats. She had grown distracted, made a mistake. She opened the drawer to find the typewriter eraser, and noticed two more men, these in trench coats, heading toward the stairwell. She heard the door open and frowned. Was she wearing her glasses? She put a hand to her face to check, found them there where they were supposed to be. Those men had looked a little old for the young doctor's freshman class, She shrugged, wondered what she was looking for in her drawer, and stood to leave, forgetting to close the window.

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A long-ago class had built a waterproof shelter on the roof for the components of the experiment, and as Charlie approached it, he saw that someone had already moved everything inside. It must have been raining longer than he thought.

He turned to go back downstairs, backing away quickly when the door from the stairwell opened and two strangers came through it. He backed almost all the way to the opposite edge of the roof. The two men had not said anything to him, but they were coming at him in a way that he found threatening.

"What do you want?" His voice was shaky.

They stopped a few feet from him. "We need you to come with us, Dr. Eppes. We have some work for you to do."

He started to shake his head. The taller of the two men spoke. "Unless, of course — you've already done it? We know that you have the data."

Charlie shook his head again. "I…I don't know what you're talking about."

The shorter of the men came to stand beside him. Charlie wanted to back up more, but he was almost out of roof…and besides, the tall one was standing on the other side, now. He looked from one to the other, and saw metal glint in one's hand, under the other's coat…Charlie thought about the thumb drives, safe in outgoing mail, and was glad he had trusted his gut.

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By the time Don fought with traffic, reached Cal Scit, parked and got up to Charlie's office, his brother still wasn't there. He started immediately for the roof. He remembered that Charlie had told him to wait in his office, but he knew his brother — he could get involved in that experiment on the roof and stand out in the rain for hours, completely forgetting about him. So Don headed for the stairwell.

One floor later, he opened the roof access door and saw Charlie facing two men, all the way over on the other side, near the edge. "Hey Chuck!", he called over the rain, walking rapidly toward the group, "whaddya doin' over there? It's raining, you idiot!"

The men turned toward Don, then, and he recognized the glint of gunmetal even in the near-darkness. It looked like a sawed-off shotgun. He quickly ripped open his jacket and went for his own weapon even as he took off in a sideways crouch-run, searching for cover on the way back to the roof access door. He saw the waterproof shelter the students had built near the roof's edge, and as he leapt for it he heard Charlie yell, heard an explosion that could have only come from the shotgun, felt his finger convulse on the trigger of his own service weapon and heard it discharge. He waited, mid-air, to come down and see where everything had landed.

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Charlie saw Don burst through the roof access door and started to panic. Don was walking, almost jogging, toward them, yelling something, when Charlie saw the shorter man raise his arm, which seemed to turn into a sawed-off shotgun before Charlie could warn Don. He yelled — he wasn't even sure what — and launched himself at the man, and in his peripheral vision saw Don running in a crouch back for the door.

Several things happened at once. He heard the assailant grunt as he hit him, and saw his arm jerk, and knew that he had hit too late — the shotgun had been fired. He felt the hot metal as the man swore and brought it up sharply into his nose, and he was surprised after the roar of the shotgun that he could still hear the bones of his nose breaking. He felt himself sinking to the roof while something burned into his arm, and he was temporarily blinded by the pain in his nose as well as the burn of his arm.

Charlie let himself hit his knees on the roof, and didn't care that he was blind, wanted to be blind forever.

He had already seen too much.

He had already seen Don get blown off the roof.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Don owed both the best and worst moment of his day to Dr. Kincaid's window.

When the shotgun blast blew him off the roof, he soon hit the window on the way down, hanging up on it momentarily until his body weight both ripped it from its casing and snapped his tibia like a toothpick, and he kept falling. Although he wouldn't know it for quite some time, snagging on the window also changed his trajectory, so that when he hit the ground, his head did not shatter like a watermelon on the cement sidewalk, but thudded into the wet muddy landscape closer to the building instead. His cranial unit remained in one piece, but the impact was still enough to knock him out, which he would be grateful for later. Hitting, he felt the air leave his lungs, heard the window he had brought with him shatter and felt it send a few missles of broken glass into him, but was unconscious before he could panic over the loss of air or truly feel the pain of his leg. The last thing he heard was the terrified scream of the coed on the sidewalk, on whom he had almost landed.

On the roof, Charlie was also blissfully unconscious, and didn't hear his two assailants as they berated each other for so thoroughly ruining what was supposed to have been an easy pick-up. Nor did he feel any pain in his arm when the two of them roughly lifted him to his feet, and dragged his unconscious form back across the roof to the door. Once there, the smaller man helped position Charlie in a fireman's carry over the other man's shoulder, and they started their descent.

By the time they popped out of the stairwell on the first floor, the few students and instructors who had still been in the building were milling about in a panic. At least three were on cell phones, and several ran back and forth between Don's body and the first aid kit mounted on the wall just inside the door. The trench-coated men pushed past them.

A young woman froze in front of them, effectively halting their progress. "Is that Dr. Eppes? What happened?"

The shorter man spoke and took another step to encourage her movement. "Problem on the roof," he said, lucking into the one explanation she would believe. She was part of Charlie's freshman class working on the experiment, and the thought of him up there in a storm gave her all the information her imagination needed. She continued to stay in front of them, though, backing along the sidewalk. "A guy…a guy fell off the roof," she shared. "We called 9-1-1…"

The man carrying Charlie spoke soothingly. "That's good. Why don't you see if you can help him? Dr. Eppes is badly injured, we can't wait. My partner and I will take him to the hospital in our car."

She hesitated, but persuaded herself she saw competence and responsibility in the men's determined demeanor. Plus, the one carrying Dr. Eppes had said "partner", and she had heard the campus rumours about Dr. Eppes having a brother in the FBI. Finally she stepped aside, and watched them hurry to a dark sedan left haphazardly in the handicapped parking close to the building. It had to be an FBI car, she noted, because it didn't even have a license plate. The smaller man got in back with Dr. Eppes — to give first aid during the ride, probably, she thought — and the taller man quickly got behind the wheel. The car squealed out of the parking lot, and she hoped sincerely that Dr. Eppes would be all right. She looked back at the man on the sidewalk, and wondered again what had happened on the roof.

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Megan had ridden to the crime scene with Don, but since he had taken off for Cal Sci, she was hitching a ride back to the office with David and Colby. She sat in the back of the vehicle, checking her notes, when she felt the cell phone on her waist vibrate.

She retrieved it with one hand and flipped it open, still looking at her notes. "Agent Reeves." She listened for a moment and felt the notebook slide from her fingers. "What? Are you sure?" Megan listened for a while longer, then met Colby's eyes in the rear view mirror, while David had turned around in the passenger seat and was looking right at her. "Don't call him," she instructed. "He shouldn't drive himself. We'll stop and pick him up."

She closed the cell and looked at David with horror. "That was dispatch. Don just came flying off the roof of Charlie's building at Cal Sci. He's in transit to Huntington Memorial ER. I said that we would pick up Alan."

In one motion, Colby lifted the vehicle's police light out the window and onto the top of the car, hit the siren, slammed on the brakes and executed a u-turn.

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Alan opened the refrigerator and eyed the marinating brisket, did a quick inventory of available vegetables. He needed to run to the store for carrots. He would pick up some low fat cottage cheese for Charlie, too, just in case the rich meal was too much for him. Charlie was doing well, though, and usually just ate smaller amounts of whatever he was having. The summer had really relaxed him…but, school was in full swing now, and it's possible that his stress level was rising. Better to be safe.

Alan was excited. Barring any last-minute calls to crime scenes, Don was coming to dinner tonight — a little later than usual, so he still had time for a grocery run. Donnie was bringing Cecile, so they were waiting until her shift ended at the hospital. She had come to dinner a couple of times already, but every visit meant that she and Donnie were progressing right along in their relationship. Alan was happy to see his son with anyone, at this point — and it was a bonus that he genuinely enjoyed Cecile's company. He sighed with both contentment and frustration. Now if he could just get Charlie taken care of.

He had hoped, when his son went to the symposium at MIT last summer, that Charlie would look up Amita and they would — re-establish their relationship right where it left off. But he had always known that wasn't a very practical dream. He knew for a fact that Charlie had dated at least two women during the first year of Amita's absence — it wasn't as if Charlie was pining away. Or, maybe he was…running from the obvious. Alan shook himself. Impossible to tell, really, what was going on in Charlie's heart — he shared the workings of his mind much more readily than he did his feelings. Although, with this new "honesty policy" the three of them had agreed to back when he got sick, Charlie was improving at that, too. He was probably as up-front about his feelings as he could be; hard to share something you couldn't figure out yourself! Well, at least he and Amita had been able to repair their friendship. Alan could be happy with that.

He made a mental note to get more of Don's favorite beer while he was at the store — then gave up on mental notes and started a list. He had just added the cottage cheese when he heard a car squeal into the driveway unreasonably fast, and the sound of an engine he didn't recognize. He opened the kitchen door to see what was happening, and recognized Colby and David in the front seat, saw Megan climbing out of the back, registered the flashing red light on the roof…

He watched Megan come toward him and wondered how he could still be standing. His heart had stopped, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The ride to the hospital had been tense and silent. Since none of the team had been with Don when he was hurt, there was nothing they could tell Alan. Several times he tried to reach Charlie. If Donnie had been injured at Cal Sci, chances were Charlie would know what had happened. The third time he got Charlie's voice mail, Alan gave up. He chose to believe that Charlie was in the ambulance with his brother, too busy holding Don's hand to answer his cell. He would find out what happened at the hospital.

At Huntington, Colby let the three of them off at the ER entrance, then left to find a parking space. Megan and David spotted some LAPD uniforms as soon as they entered the building, and they hurried Alan over to them.

Megan flashed her badge and demanded, "You brought in Agent Eppes?"

A uniformed officer nodded. "He's being examined now. He hasn't regained consciousness, so we've been unable to get a statement."

Alan interrupted. "What about my other son? What did Charlie tell you?" He looked around, not seeing him. "Did they let him go back with his brother?"

The officer at first looked confused, then sorrowful, and Megan felt her heart drop. "Wasn't someone with Agent Eppes?"

The officer shook his head. "No…are we talking about Dr. Eppes?"

Everyone nodded, and the officer continued. "We have a witness, a girl, who says she saw two men place an injured Dr. Eppes into a private vehicle. They told her they were transporting him themselves, and she got the impression they were FBI officers, somehow."

Alan became more agitated than he already was. "Where is he, then? Where's Charlie?"

The officer tried to sooth him. "He hasn't been brought here, but we have alerts at all other area emergency centers."

Alan wouldn't be placated. He looked at Megan and David. "But if they were FBI officers, you would know it, right? You would have heard."

Colby, car parked, jogged up to the group. "What's happening?"

Megan looked at him in horror. "Nothing on Don, yet. And…it looks like Charlie is missing."

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Thirty minutes later, Alan refused a cup of coffee for the seventh time. He had finally agreed to sit when he saw a white-coated doctor headed for the waiting area, and heard a faint, "family of Donald Eppes?" He jumped up again and lifted his hand, and the doctor came toward him.

"Dr. Rich Embry. Are you Donald's father?"

Alan nodded. "Don, yes. How is he?"

The doctor looked at the crowd gathering around Alan. "Perhaps we should find somewhere to speak privately."

Alan shook his head. "It's all right. These people are family."

Dr, Embry's gaze lingered on David and he cleared his throat. "Of course. Well. Mr. Eppes, you may have the luckiest son alive at the moment."

Alan visibly sagged, and Colby tightened up the space between them, ready to grab if Alan went down. Alan sensed his presence and was grateful. "He's all right?"

The doctor's attitude remained serious. "He's alive, Mr. Eppes, and that in itself is remarkable. Agent Eppes was shot, with a shotgun. He was wearing his Kevlar vest, and that saved his life — but there was still enough force to bruise several ribs, break two — and knock him off the roof of a three-story building." Alan gasped, and the doctor urged them all to sit down. Once settled, he continued his litany of Don's injuries. "Your son entangled part of the building on the way down — an outward-opening window. That slowed his descent some. At some point — perhaps on the window, perhaps on impact — he suffered a broken leg; right tibia. He's being prepped for surgery on that now. When he hit the ground, both lungs collapsed — he 'had the air knocked out of him' — and his right lung reinflated on its own. The left was…encouraged…by the EMTs. His head hit in the muddy landscaping. The other choice was cement, and I don't have to tell you how different this story would be if things had gone that way."

"Is he conscious, now?" Colby's interruption was fine with Alan. He would ask the same thing if he could speak.

The doctor shook his head. "The impact was still significant. It was three stories. There is some brain swelling, and we're addressing that with drugs for the time being. Hopefully it will recede without further intervention. The window that came crashing down with him also shattered, obviously, and some glass shot into his left arm and leg. Only a few of those wounds required any treatment besides simple irrigation and a tetanus shot." He looked down at the chart in his hands. "I believe we put a few stitches in two leg wounds."

Alan found his voice. "Can I see him before the surgery?"

Again Dr. Embry shook his head. "I'm sorry. He's already gone up. If you'd like to go to the fourth floor surgical waiting room, the orthopedic surgeon will find you there as soon as he's finished. I can give you directions."

This time it was Alan who shook his head. "That's all right," he said quietly, "I know." He remembered waiting there just a few short months ago, for news of Charlie's emergency surgery. At least Don had been with him, then. Tonight, waiting to hear about Donnie, Alan not only didn't have the comfort of his other son — he didn't even know if Charlie was still alive.

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An hour later, Alan heard footsteps and looked up anxiously. Was it over already? Instead of looking into the face of another doctor, however, he saw the pale face of Cecile, and immediately wanted to kick himself. How could he have forgotten that she worked here, and in post op, no less? How could he have let her find out this way?

Alan stood and started toward her. "Cecile, I'm so sorry. I should have called you…"

She met him in the middle of the room and hugged him briefly, but strongly, and smiled over his shoulder at the members of Don's team. "Hush, Mr. Eppes, I'm sure you've had other things on your mind." She pulled back, but left a hand on his arm. "I saw Don's name on the latest list of patients currently in surgery and came as soon as I could get someone to cover my rooms. I was sure you and Charlie would be waiting here…" She looked around for Charlie expectantly, then with confusion back at Alan. "Is he in the restroom or something?"

Alan suddenly teared-up and frightened Cecile nearly senseless. She managed to pull some automatic nursing skills out of somewhere, though, and got him to sit down with her. "Mr.…"

He tried to smile at her. "Alan, dear. I've told you that."

She gave a little smile back. "Alan…I checked on Don just before I came, and surgery is going well. It should be another hour or two." She looked at Megan, who smiled and then dropped her eyes. Colby and David wouldn't meet her eyes to begin with. She almost whispered her next question. "Alan…Alan, where is Charlie?"

Alan didn't try to stop the tear that spilled out of one eye as he answered sadly. "I don't know, Cecile. Nobody knows. Someone saw him being taken…he's hurt…"

Cecile braced herself and put on her best patient's family smile. "Maybe not, Alan — the witness could be wrong." She looked to the FBI agents for support. "Don told me that witnesses often get things wrong, they get caught up in the shock…"

Alan shook his head. "It's not just the witness. I feel it. I'm his father."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

His stomach rumbled, long and low like a summer thunderstorm, and then gave way to a gnawing burning that was familiar, even though, when it woke Charlie up, he couldn't remember the last time he had felt it. He started to move his arm to cradle his stomach and felt sharp pain near the shoulder, so he stopped. He decided instead to open his eyes, but that didn't seem to be working either. They felt swollen, glued shut. He wondered vaguely if he was having an allergy attack when it occurred to him that there was an axe buried in the middle of his face.

Once identified, the pain in the area that used to house his nose intensified. His mouth had already fallen open so that he could breathe, but now he opened it further, and purposely moved his arm again. This accomplished two things. First, he finally managed to cradle his stomach. He was unsure how that would help, exactly, but he still wanted to do it. More importantly, the forced movement seemed to tear something on his upper arm. He could feel liquid begin to roll down his arm, and the agonizing moment of the tear caused his eyes to open.

Not exactly wide — he felt like he was ripping them open, but if he were to go by what he could see, his eyes were only open slits. He seemed to be on a floor, leaning against a wall, and there were a pair of knees and a shotgun in front of him.

"Idiot," he heard, and was ridiculously glad to find that at least his ears seemed to be working. "You started it up again."

The knees and the shotgun seemed to fade away a little and Charlie's stomach growled and burned again. "Great," he thought. "Best case scenario, I've managed to reactivate my ulcer, somehow. Worst case scenario, the guy with the shotgun is going to blow my stomach into Oregon anyway."

As soon as he envisioned the shotgun discharging, Charlie saw Don fly backwards off the roof and squeezed shut his slits-for-eyes against the onslaught of memories.

He had a new worst case scenario.

Worst case, Don had not been wearing his vest when that shotgun went off on the roof. Worst case, it didn't really matter, and his brains were spread all over the sidewalk in front of the math & sciences building. Worst case, he would never see his brother again — and it was his own fault. He had called Don to campus, even telling him that he would be on the roof. He should have known that Don would come up there to find him.

Shotgun Sam interrupted Charlie's thoughts with a poke at his aching arm. "You awake or not?"

Charlie didn't even feel the increased pain. He just kept seeing the same scene, over and over — Don flying backwards off the roof. Without warning, bile rose within him and he didn't even try to suppress it, just let it go and vomited all over the knees in front of him.

"Shit!" Whoever owned the knees didn't take it too well, and Charlie felt the butt of the shotgun slam into the place where he used to have a nose…and then, thankfully, he again faded away and didn't feel anything at all.

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Once Cecile arrived and Alan was not alone, Megan knew that she and the other agents should return to Cal Sci — to the newest crime scene. Don had said that Charlie 'had something'. Now Don had been shot and Charlie was missing. That couldn't be a coincidence — it had to be related to the case. She was anxious to get to work finding out how, finding Charlie — but she was reluctant to leave the hospital. Finally she excused herself and took the elevator down to the lobby, where she could use her cell phone.

She checked her voice mail and was startled to hear one from Director Merrick. "I understand the concern of your team for Agent Eppes, Agent Reeves, but the three of you are still needed here. Please return as soon as you can. Report to Agent Michaelson. He and his team have been assigned to Don's case, and will be serving as back-up for your team on the case you've been working. Details are sketchy, but since Dr. Eppes is involved, we have to assume the two…situations are related. We have an agent down now, and our resources will reflect that."

Megan exited voice mail and nodded to herself. Bert Michaelson. He was good. She had worked with him before, when Don had taken some vacation time to be with Charlie a few months ago, after his emergency surgery. She scrolled through her address book for Michaelson's number, and considered Charlie's ulcer for the first time. Being kidnapped was probably considered the kind of stress he should avoid.

Megan spoke briefly with Michaelson, then went back to the fourth floor to collect David and Colby. She entered the waiting area and smiled at Mr. Eppes. "Alan, I wish we could stay…"

He looked startled for a moment, then sat up a little straighter. "No, no, I understand. You need to find out who did this, where Charlie is. You all need to get back in the field." He took a breath and looked at Cecile. "I'll be fine, here. You should probably get back to work, too."

Cecile smiled tenderly, reached shyly to his lap, where the fingers of one hand had been nervously tapping a staccato beat on his leg for the last half hour, and took his hand in hers. "I'd like to stay, Mr.…Alan. The rest of the floor nurses divided up my rooms for the remainder of my shift…it was almost over, anyway." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "Actually, it is over, now. I can stay…if you'd like me to…"

Alan smiled and squeezed her hand. "Thank you, dear. I'd like that very much." He looked back at Megan, and at David and Colby, who had joined her near the door. "Please, it's all right. I understand."

Megan hesitated. "Alan…the CSIs have already turned some information. Everything is always on stat processing when an agent goes down…but this came in really fast, because it was all right in our in-house system."

Every single person in the room frowned, and Alan finally asked. "What is it?"

"The location of Don's position on the roof was easily determined, and his service weapon and a spent shell casing were found nearby. Ballistics have confirmed that he discharged his weapon."

Alan frowned deeper, more confused. "But that's good, right? He might have hit one of them."

Megan took a breath and continued. "The bullet was found about 30 feet away, embedded in the roof. When it was recovered, there was blood on it — enough to run through DNA."

Alan was growing impatient. "So that's even better. You might be able to ID the suspect."

"DNA analysis can't be done yet," Colby interjected, "even with a rush."

Megan shook her head and kept looking at Alan. "He's right. The results are preliminary. Understand, they could change…"

Alan was suddenly terrified and had no idea why. He gripped Cecile's hand tighter and waited for Megan to say whatever it was that was obviously so difficult for her.

She sighed. "Alan…it looks like Don shot Charlie."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The three agents were strangely silent as the vehicle negotiated the evening traffic en route to Cal Sci.

After seven minutes, Colby cleared his throat. "Don shot Charlie?"

Megan shrugged miserably. "It was his gun. Only his prints were on it. When he was hit, it must have effected the trajectory, or something."

David took the reasonable route. "Okay," he started. "Let's go with the assumption that final DNA analysis will prove that Charlie was on the roof as well. We know that two men took him. How big a leap is it to say they were holding him on the roof when Don got there? Don took out his weapon. The assailants didn't bother to go get it after he dropped it, so they must not have needed it; must have had their own. So, Don gets his weapon, the guys holding Charlie have weapons, Charlie sees all the weapons…"

Colby finished for him. "He got in the way. Tried to stop the perp from hitting Don."

"I don't know…" Megan mused, thinking aloud. "That's a lot of assuming…but it would explain how a shotgun fired at that close a range wasn't a dead-on hit. Michaelson said there were as many pellets in the roof as there were in Don's vest."

Colby negotiated another turn. "So they found the bullet. Blood evidence on the bullet…how much more blood?"

Megan brightened a little. "Trace amounts. Maybe it wasn't a solid hit."

Colby sighed and changed the subject. "So why are we going to Cal Sci?"

"Michaelson wants us to check out Charlie's office, since we're familiar with it, and we also know what we gave him to work with." Megan considered. "Do you think I should call Larry? We may need his help to figure out whatever Charlie found — see what's on his laptop."

As Colby eased the vehicle into position behind a line of LAPD cars on campus, David started to open his door. "Let's see if we even find it, first," he suggested, and Megan nodded, and opened her own door.

When the three agents entered the building, it turned out that calling Larry was a moot point. He stood chewing on his fingernails, with a small group of faculty and students in the lobby.

He saw them enter and pushed against the crime scene tape. "Oh dear," he said, trying ineffectively to get past a uniformed officer. "Agents! Megan!"

The three quickly spotted him and headed over, motioned to the officer to let Larry under the tape. They met halfway across the lobby.

"Megan, Colby, David…it's such a relief to see you," Larry began before they could say anything. "Where's Don? I don't know what's going on, here. I was in the library, and I heard the commotion. One of my students — Raven — is insisting that she witnessed Charles being abducted…and someone came off the roof…"

Megan placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Larry…Larry…just calm down, a little. That's why we're here." She looked beyond him at the small crowd behind the tape. "Which one is Raven?"

Larry glanced behind him and then at a group of suited detectives who were set up in another corner. "There. She's giving another statement, I gather."

Megan nodded at David and he took off to join the group. She turned her attention back to Larry. "You didn't…see who came off the roof?"

He shook his head. "By the time I arrived, the gentleman was surrounded by medical personnel, and I was escorted away from the scene." He saw the look on Megan's face and began to chew his fingernails again. "Why?"

She sighed. "It was Don."

Larry paled. "Oh, my heavens. That's quite disturbing…a fall from such a height…"

She interrupted. "He was shot, he didn't just fall."

"Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Is…Is he…"

"He's in surgery," Megan assured him. "The doctor said he's actually very lucky. He was wearing his vest, and his head hit in the mud, which was softened after two days of rain…he has a badly broken leg, though, some glass damage from a window he hit on the way down…"

"Dr. Kincaid," Larry breathed. "No one can persuade her to keep her window closed."

"It's a good thing," Colby said fervently. "I think it may have helped save Don's life."

"Oh, dear," Larry said again, and his hand crept from his mouth to his head, and planted itself in his hair. "Perhaps Charles simply went to the hospital…"

Megan touched his arm again. "I don't think so, Larry. We're here to look around his office. He was working on a case for us, and he called Don away from a crime scene. He must have found something."

"Anything I can do to help…", Larry began, and Colby took him up on it.

"Why don't you come up with us? You might notice something we don't."

Larry nodded silently while Megan caught David's attention and pointed up. David nodded, and the two agents escorted the professor to the stairwell. They trudged up the stairs without further conversation, and soon were headed down the corridor leading to Charlie's office. The door stood open, and they stood in a semi-circle outside and peered at the books on the floor, the papers strewn across the desk, the equation-filled white boards.

Colby looked at Megan. "How are we supposed to know whether or not the place has been ransacked? It looks like this every time I come here."

Megan shrugged and Larry brought his fingers back down to tap his chin. "Well, now wait, Agent Granger. I'll admit, Charles is not the neatest person…but the semester is only a month old. His office shouldn't look like this until at least mid-terms."

Colby waded inside, and saw that several desk drawers were open, and the phone was on the floor behind the desk. "Okay," he said, "I'm calling it. Let's get the techs in here for prints." He looked at Larry, paused just inside the doorway, looking intently around the room. "You see something else, Larry?"

The professor sighed. "It could be nothing. I left this building rather early today, to conduct some research in the library. I stopped by to see if Charles wanted to join me for lunch first, but he claimed to be in the middle of a project. He was working on his laptop, and seemed a little distracted." The two agents kept looking at him, and it made him a little nervous. His fingernails got dangerously close to his mouth again. "You see," he said, gesturing toward the desk. "There's no laptop. However, that was several hours ago, he may have placed it in…" he looked around the office again. "I don't see his backpack. Is it behind the desk?"

Colby looked and shook his head. "Both missing. Correction. Three things missing. Laptop, backpack, Charlie."

Megan, still in the hallway, looked towards Larry's office. It was on the same side of the corridor as Charlie's, and she could she from where she stood that its door was also open. "Larry…" She waited until he turned to look at her. "Do you lock your office when you leave the building?"

He nodded. "Of course. Whenever I remember."

Colby groaned and Larry glanced at him. "As I was saying. I know that I did today. I remember remembering."

Megan started walking down the hall and the two men followed. "Well, it's open now," she said. Soon, the semi-circle re-formed outside Larry's office. If anything, it looked worse than Charlie's — which, unfortunately, it usually did.

Colby looked at Megan again. "How are we supposed to know…" he started, but stopped when she indicated the face plate in the door frame.

"Jimmied," she said. She looked at Larry. "Anything obvious missing here? Your laptop?"

His hand was on his head again as he surveyed his office. "Oh, dear. Dear." He pulled himself together with a breath, dropped his hand. "No, no, I had mine with me, in the library."

Megan nodded, thinking. "All right. We'll check for prints in here, too. We should go to the Eppes house, and check Charlie's garage."

Colby agreed. "Right. We can swing back by Huntington and ask Mr. Eppes for a key."

Larry put up his hand, as if he were a student waiting to be called upon, so Megan did. "Larry?"

"I'm sure Alan would want you to do whatever is necessary to find Charles," he started. "I have an extra key to the garage in the glove compartment of my car."

Megan smiled grimly and grabbed Larry's arm, and started dragging him back toward the stairwell.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Alan started to stand when a doctor entered the waiting area, but light pressure on his arm from Cecile kept him seated. The doctor sat down opposite them.

"This is Dr. Chamberlain," introduced Cecile. "He's one of the best orthopedic surgeons in the country. People come from all over to have him do their operations."

Alan nodded gratefully and the doctor leaned over to shake his hand. "Modesty would have me protest, Mr. Eppes — but false humility won't reassure you as to your son's condition, so I'll agree with Nurse Randle — I'm one the best."

Dr. Chamberlain smiled disarmingly, hoping to cut through some of the tension he could feel emanating off the man, but his plan backfired. The smile just reminded Alan of Charlie, and he hurried to speak before the memories overwhelmed him. "Please…how is Don?"

The doctor sensed Alan's fright and decided to cut right to the chase. "I can speak best of his tibial fracture. The tibia heals very slowly. This could be a career-ending injury. Agent Eppes is young, and strong, and I've treated this injury aggressively hoping to avoid that — assuming he will want to continue with the FBI."

Alan nodded. "I'm sure we'll both appreciate that, someday. Right now I just want to hear that my boy is alive — and will walk, again."

The doctor's face softened. "Of course. Don is in no immediate danger. He will suffer considerable pain when he wakes up, from his ribs, his leg…He'll probably have a pretty good headache, as well."

Cecile couldn't wait any more for Alan to voice the question. "The brain swelling?"

The doctor tilted his own head in acquiescence. "Still significant. He'll undergo another CT scan as soon as he's out of recovery. The good news is there was no increased pressure noted during the anesthesia and surgery."

Cecile took Alan's hand again. "That is very good news," she assured him.

The doctor waited for further questions, and when there were none, continued his explanation. "Anyway. Back to your son's leg. I've used the intramedullary nailing technique. This is fast becoming the standard for the treatment of tibial fractures. For the next three weeks Don will stay an inpatient with his leg suspended in a kind of hammock. Manual traction will be applied for a total of about 12 minutes per hour, every hour, around the clock. It will be painful, but better than standard traction, which would have to be applied for at least 25 minutes per hour."

"Dr. Chamberlain helped develop this technique," put in Cecile. "Don couldn't have a better doctor for his injury."

Alan looked at her and then back at the doctor. "Excuse me…did you say 'nails'? Don't you mean pins, or plates?"

The doctor grinned. "You heard correctly, Mr. Eppes. Medical-quality nails. I have nailed your son's leg back together. After the three weeks of traction, he'll be casted and released, with no weight-bearing. Three more weeks, and he'll start an aggressive physical therapy. Tibial fractures treated in this way have very good chances of complete and strong healing, and a return to pre-injury activity levels. I'm not sure of the current odds…" He stopped speaking when he saw Alan pale, unsure as to how he had upset him. Cecile silently squeezed his hand, knowing even this small allusion to numbers was reminding him of Charlie.

"Of course there are risks," Dr. Chamberlain finally continued. "One or more nails could become infected, or he could develop knee pain later that would necessitate their removal. Even if everything goes according to plan, Agent Eppes will be off-duty for at least three months, and then hopefully can return for another month of light duty before he's in the field again." The doctor leaned forward. "I fully intend to send your son back out there, Mr. Eppes."

Alan tried to feel relief, but the feeling of betrayal was stronger, and he actually had to stop himself from letting go of Cecile's hand long enough to slap this doctor.

He was going to send Donnie back out there, and Alan was going to have to lose him all over again.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"…moron?"

The word sank into Charlie's consciousness.

"He threw up on me." Charlie recognized that voice. The man with the shotgun — and he still didn't sound too happy.

"He can't even open his eyes, they're so swollen. I thought you understood why you were bringing him here. He can't do it if he can't see!"

Charlie tried to concentrate. He thought he recognized that voice, too…but he couldn't quite get it. He wished he could open his eyes. He tried again. He would have lifted a hand and pried them open with his fingers, but he didn't want them to know he was awake.

"And what happened to his arm?"

Shotgun snickered. "This is rich. Me and Max was talking. Neither one of us did it. Nearest we can figure is that when he jumped me on the roof, he got in the way of his brother's bullet." He snickered again. "Too bad it's just a graze."

Charlie was so shocked by that revelation that he missed part of the other voice's response. With difficulty, he pulled himself back to the conversation.

"…him this. It's enough to knock out a horse, so it should put him out for the rest of the night. I'll stay here with him while you two morons go find a mattress you can drag in here…get some ice for his face. We need him to be able to open his eyes."

Shotgun sounded suspicious. "What's in that?"

Charlie felt hands on his good arm, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, and he automatically tried to jerk away.

"Hmm. None too soon, I see." Charlie felt a needle inserted into his upper arm, and would have squeezed his eyes shut — if they weren't shut already. "It's morphine."

"Morphine? Where did you get a syringe full of morphine?"

There was a low chuckle. Charlie was already feeling the effects of the drug he had been given, but again he had the feeling that he knew that voice.

"You think a man in my position can't get his hands on just about anything he wants? Get something to clean his arm up, too. And when he wakes up tomorrow, I want you to feed him, get some water into him. He's no good to us dead, either."

"Let me see if I understand." Shotgun sounded sarcastic, now. "You want me to tuck him into bed, give him first aid, feed him, water him — and then torture him?"

The chuckle again. Charlie was trying to hang on, hear more…but everything was fading to a delicious buzzing…

"Just persuade him to do what we want. Be creative. If you kill him before he's done it, I'll kill you."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

On the way to Charlie's house, David filled in the others on Raven's statement. As soon as Colby pulled the vehicle into the driveway, everybody knew they wouldn't be needing Larry's key. In the headlights they could see that the door to the garage stood open, and papers blew across the lawn.

"Guys…look…" Colby was gesturing toward the house. The kitchen door stood open as well.

Megan pulled out her cell phone. "I'm calling in a team," she said, "and requesting a protective order for everyone. I want security on Don in the hospital. Alan and Larry are going to a safe house."

"Oh, no, Megan…surely that is not necessary. My classes…"

Megan turned to glare at Larry in the back seat. "Have you not seen that somebody wants something from Charlie in a pretty bad way? They're trashing every place, they obviously haven't found what they want. If you had Charlie and you wanted to persuade him to do something, how would you do it?"

Larry paled a little in the face of her anger, but he persisted. "Surely you don't believe that you will entice Alan to leave Don."

David had turned in the front seat and was looking at Larry. "You don't understand, Larry. Alan isn't exactly going to have a choice. And neither do you."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don was out of recovery and a second CT scan, and in his own private room before midnight. Alan and Cecile entered the room quietly and approached the head of the bed.

Cecile let Alan take the lead, and he leaned over the rail to touch his lips to Don's forehead. She watched for a moment but felt as if she were seeing something she shouldn't, somehow, and focused her attention on Don's leg, suspended over the end of the bed. She had seen intramedullary nailings of the tibia before…she had seen countless patients, in countless beds. She had been a nurse since she was 21 years old, for almost 10 years now, and it surprised her how completely unprepared she was to see someone she loved in this position.

She heard the words echoing through her brain and barely suppressed a gasp. Without knowing it, she reached for one of Alan's hands again. She loved Don.

Now _there_ was an insight.

Cecile tore her eyes away from his leg and looked at his face, covered with stubble. The brown eyes were closed, and wouldn't crinkle in laughter anytime soon.

How had she fallen in love?

Cecile tried to pull herself together. Alan was gripping her hand tightly, and hadn't looked away from Don. She tried to find her bedside demeanor. "Dr. Lemuel was very positive," she said, hearing her own voice shake a little. She cleared her throat. This was ridiculous. "The pressure in his skull hasn't increased at all since he was admitted."

"It hasn't decreased, either," noted Alan unhappily.

"But he was honest with you," insisted Cecile. "The brain swelling should steadily decrease as the anesthesia leaves his system and the corticosteroids kick in more. I've seen is happen hundreds of times, Alan."

Alan finally took in Don's suspended leg. "Maybe I should be glad he's not awake. That probably hurts."

Cecile let go of his hand and wrapped her arm around his shoulders. "Morphine," she said. "It's a wonderful thing."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Given the chance, Charlie would disagree.

_Instead, he found himself flat on his back, on a bed of white. Turning his head with difficulty and looking sideways, he saw that it was deceptive. It appeared to be fluffy, comfortable…but it was really sticky, and hot. As he worked to push himself up on his elbows, he saw a huge, dark shadow in the distance and focused on it. Counting legs and taking in its general shape, he determined that it was a spider, and he was trapped in its web. Charlie really didn't appreciate that discovery, and he kept looking around for a way out. So far away he could barely recognize him, Charlie suddenly saw Don. Also flat on his back, the spider was actively cocooning him in its web so that he couldn't move at all. "Donnie!" cried Charlie, and in a burst of desperation he was able to flip onto his stomach, and bring his knees up under him so that he could crawl. He had to reach Don before the spider was finished, and had him for lunch._

_It was hard to crawl in the sticky substance, but Charlie began to make progress. Not fast enough, though, he could see that the spider had almost totally encased Don. Charlie's left knee snagged in a particularly sticky spot of the web, and he looked down at it for a moment. Managing finally to pull it free, he looked back at Don, and was surprised to see and feel that they were no longer in the spider's web. Their white bed was surrounded by a calm blue sky, and he saw that they were on a cloud. It was such a relief. Charlie looked over the edge and saw the earth far below — the actual earth, a round globe as if he were seeing it from the moon — and then looked back at Don. His relief was replaced with terror as he saw Don rolling toward the edge of the cloud. Charlie had to reach him. He had to save Don. He started crawling again, but the cloud was so soft that he sank into like quicksand, and his progress was slower than it had been in the spider web. "Donnie!" he called again, and he watched his brother teeter on the edge for a moment. Charlie frantically reached out a hand, but there was no way to reach his brother. He was too far away. He watched Don spin over the edge and hurtle toward the planet, and heard himself scream._

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Megan waited, gathering more information and planting Larry in the safe house, until almost 6 in the morning before she corralled Alan in Don's hospital room. Cecile was still with him, she was glad to see when she silently pushed the door open. She knocked lightly and continued on toward the bed.

Alan looked up at her anxiously. "Charlie?"

She just shook her head and looked at Don for a moment. He was either sleeping or still unconscious, and he looked gray. "How is he?", she asked. "Has he regained consciousness?"

Cecile answered. "We're very optimistic. He's showing signs of lightening…especially when the nurses come in here every hour and hook him up to traction."

Alan suddenly started and glanced at Cecile as if just noticing her, even though she had sat next to him all night. "Sweetheart…you must be exhausted. You worked a full 12-hour shift yesterday, and sat with me all night…"

She smiled at him. "It's all right, Alan. I'm not scheduled for another three days, so I can stay. Besides, you've been here all night yourself!"

Megan cleared her throat. "That has to change, Mr. Eppes."

They both looked at her.

"Someone has been at your house, your garage…Charlie's and Larry's offices, Larry's apartment, Don's apartment… Until we know what's going on, I need you and Larry under protective custody. I've had security on Don since he got out of surgery. Larry's in the safe house already, and I'm here to take you."

Alan straightened in his chair and glared at her, but spoke lowly so as not to disturb Don. "I. Will. Not. Leave."

Megan tried again. "I'm sorry, Alan, really. I've stopped at your house and picked up a few things…"

He stood up and stepped away from the bed. "If you have security on Don already, why do I have to leave? I'll be in here with him!"

Megan looked at Cecile. "That's another thing. We'll be moving Don to a more secure location in the hospital. Huntington has agreed to let you stay with him, there, as his primary nursing care, if you agree. There will be back-up, of course — Alan is right, you need some rest. We've added a roll-away to the suite of rooms we use in these situations. Please understand, Cecile, you don't have to do this. There are other arrangements we can make."

Cecile stood as well. She didn't even hesitate. "No, No, I want to. I'd like to. Thank you for arranging this."

Alan continued to protest. "I still don't understand why I can't go there with him."

Megan spoke gently, but firmly. "Alan, for whatever reason, and until we learn otherwise, you're a target yourself now. So is Don. Leaving the two of you together would double the danger for you both. Is that really what you want for Don?"

Alan stared at her silently for a moment, and then looked back at Don. "He's not even awake, yet," he said, and the heartbreak in his voice nearly broke Megan's resolve.

Cecile spoke quietly. "I'll take care of him, Alan. I promise."

He looked at her and nodded. "I know that, dear…but…" He looked back at Don.

Megan played her last card. "Mr. Eppes. Larry is trying to go over the data we originally gave to Charlie, but he's having some difficulty. Nobody understands the directions Charlie's mind can take like you do. You might be able to help find him."

Alan was smart enough to realize that Megan was probably playing him, just trying to gain his cooperation.

But he was also desperate enough to hope that she was right.

So he sighed heavily, and leaned over the rail to kiss Don one last time. He held Cecile for a moment as if she was a life jacket and he was drowning in the middle of the ocean — which was precisely how he felt.

Then he picked up his jacket, and followed Megan out the door.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

_Don knew that everything was relative. As things normally progressed, he should be able to assign each item to an order of importance._

_But it was all too confusing. There was a dull ache in the center of his being, all the time. If he thought about moving, even though his eyes were closed the room would spin dizzily and, although it hurt him to do it, he would have to concentrate hard to keep from throwing up. He knew, instinctively — somehow — that if he ever let himself start, it would never, ever, ever stop._

_Every time he would get those things prioritized, and have some idea of what was coming next, the most confusing thing of all would happen._

_Someone placed a shark on his leg, and he felt it gnaw into him and pull. And pull. And then pull some more. Why the hell the shark couldn't manage to just rip his leg off was the part Don could not understand. If he could open his eyes, and find an axe, or a butcher knife — at this point, even a pair of dull scissors — Don would help the damn shark out himself. He didn't want the leg anymore anyway. He would find a way to chase perps on a stump._

_He thought he sensed people nearby, even through his closed eyes. His nose was fine, and he could swear he smelled Cecile's perfume. That frightened him, because he didn't want her to follow him into these dangerous waters._

_So Don mustered all the strength he had ever put together at one time and screamed. That is, he really intended to scream — but what came out was a pitiful whisper. "Shark attack. Save yourself."_

Cecile started awake from her fitful slumber in the chair beside the bed and looked at Don. His eyes were still closed. She must have been dreaming. She glanced at his leg and saw that someone had come in and resumed the traction. She was just about to get up and walk around the room a little to stretch, when she heard it again. The quietest, sexiest, most gut-wrenchingly beautiful whisper she had ever heard: "I need scissors."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

When Charlie woke up, he was very uncomfortable.

He seemed to be face down on something filthy and smelly, and both hands were extended above his head. He thought at first that his face was buried in a small pillow, but as he regained more of his senses he determined that it was a melted ice pack. He slowly turned his head to one side. His upper right arm ached, but still he tried to lower both hands, and heard an odd rattle and felt a sudden jerk when something solid stopped all motion. He opened his eyes a little — that, at least, was an improvement – and was staring at a brick wall. He moved his head cautiously and saw that he was wearing a pair of handcuffs, and they were chained to a metal loop buried in a concrete floor. He pulled on his legs, and felt another jerk, heard another rattle. Must be chained at both ends.

He froze at the sound of footsteps. Something kicked at the mattress. "It's about time." He refused to look, turning his head instead back toward the wall. "I'm releasing the cuffs now, but I've still got the gun. Don't try anything." Charlie felt first his hands and arms, then his feet and legs, pick up some slack. Something solid hit the floor next to him and he involuntarily jerked.

The voice was further away when it laughed. Then, "You slept through lunch. We saved you some. If you want it, sit up and eat it, asshole."

Charlie tried to ignore the order, but the constant burn that was now his stomach finally made him turn his head the other way, and slowly push himself into a sitting position. He could see now that he was on a filthy mattress in the corner of some large room — part of a warehouse? – and Mr. Shotgun was sitting cross-legged on the floor about 20 feet away, staring at him as if Charlie was a fascinating exhibition in a museum, somewhere. On the floor near Shotgun was a 6-pack of bottled water — one missing — and a laptop computer. Even with half-closed eyes at a distance, Charlie could tell that it wasn't his.

A pizza box lay near the head of the mattress, and Charlie leaned over painfully to flip it open. He stared with distaste at the cold pepperoni pizza, Congealed rivers of grease covered the top and had soaked through the bottom of the box. He tried not to think about what that would do to his ulcer. "I can't eat this," he said, surprised to find that his voice worked.

Shotgun shrugged. "Hey. I followed orders. If you don't want the food I got you, that's not my problem."

Charlie looked toward the water again. "Can I have a drink?"

A bottle of water rolled across the floor and into the mattress. Charlie reached to grab it before it bounced and rolled away, then uncapped it and drank greedily. It seemed to put out the fire, a little, but that only made him hungrier. While he finished the bottle of water he looked again at the pizza. He saw an ant swimming in one of the rivers of grease, and he closed the lid again. When the bottle was empty, he replaced the cap and rolled it back. "Can I have more?"

Shotgun looked at him for a moment, then begrudgingly rolled him another bottle. "Slow down. This is all we have."

Charlie grabbed the second bottle and uncapped it, and took a few small sips before he capped it again and laid it next to him on the bed. He looked at Shotgun and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. The man rose and walked to the door of the room, banging on it twice. "Max!", he yelled. "It's awake!" Presently it opened, and Charlie saw the taller man from the roof enter. He regarded Charlie pensively. "Looks like they're open enough to me," he finally said, and Shotgun walked back to the laptop and picked it up. He brought it over to Charlie and set it next to him on the mattress, and he could see now that it was Don's, from his apartment.

"We found the data," said Max. "Not that you made it easy. It was the last place we looked. And it's encrypted. None of the programs we have can break the code. You do it. You probably wrote it, boss says. Boss wants to see exactly what you think you got from your one afternoon with what we…" He stopped talking abruptly, then started up again. "…they gave you."

Charlie started to shake his head 'no', but Max kept talking. "That's not all. Boss says you're a thorough kind of guy, and there's gotta be another copy of this floating around somewhere." He grinned a little, and the sight of it chilled Charlie to the bone. "Looked pretty serious to me when he said we should find out where that copy is."

The two men stood a few feet from the mattress. Charlie looked at Don's laptop, had a sudden memory of helping Don buy it and set it up…and another memory of Don flying off the roof at Cal Sci. He looked back at the two men, and his voice was strong and full of hate when he spoke. "I won't do it."

Shotgun smiled. "Boss said you might need some persuading." He looked at his partner and nodded, and they both came to the mattress at the same time. Max roughly grabbed Charlie's feet and pulled him toward the end of the mattress, until he could reach the ankle chains again, while Shotgun leveled his weapon at Charlie's head, daring him to move. When his feet were secure, Max sat behind him on the mattress and brought Charlie's arms firmly behind his back, and held them there. Then Shotgun carefully laid his gun on the floor, and, straightening, brought a small penknife out of his pocket. He squatted in front of the mattress and began to slice away the gauze bandage that Charlie just noticed on his upper arm. He tried to twist away from the knife, but Max was strong…the chains even stronger.

"I love this part," said Shotgun, once the gauze had been cut from Charlie's arm. Charlie craned his head to look at the wound. An oozing, painful mess, from what he could see. He sensed a hand coming toward his arm again and saw that Shotgun had replaced the penknife with a cigarette lighter. "Looks like we should sterilize this," he said, and he flicked the lighter alive and started to burn the edges of the bullet graze. Charlie looked away and jerked again, and bit down on the yelp in his throat. He would not give them the satisfaction.

The burning went on forever. He lost the ability to differentiate as the edges of the wound and then its center were heated to the point of blistering. Charlie was afraid that he would pass out, and he could no longer stop the moans that burst from his mouth against his will. His head hung toward his chest and he concentrated on breathing. Mercifully, it finally stopped. "Tough one, ain't ya?" he heard Max breathe into his ear. Charlie had heard Shotgun get up and walk away from the mattress, and now he heard him coming back.

"Relax, Doc," he heard the man say. "Can't do too much damage. You'll need to use that arm when you see things our way."

Charlie kept breathing, and looked through his hanging curls toward Shotgun, immediately regretting it. The man stood over Charlie's legs, raising a sledge hammer. Where had he gotten that? Had he been gone long enough to leave the room? Charlie's sense of time must be getting fuzzy…but the sight of the sledge hammer spurred him into action. He struggled mightily against the chains. "Good thing you don't use your legs to type," said Shotgun conversationally, and Charlie saw him start to lower the hammer. Charlie did the only thing he could think of to save at least one leg. Simultaneously, he pulled hard away from Max, trying to crawl off the end of the mattress; twisted violently toward the wall; and raised the leg nearest Shotgun higher than the other.

The combined effects of those efforts turned blunt trauma into a glancing blow, but there was still enough contact and force to separate the ACL tendon from the bone, tear through the meniscus, and shatter Charlie's knee cap.

This time Charlie couldn't help it. A scream was ripped from his throat but died on his lips, and he passed out in a slump against Max.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Alan hovered over Larry, who sat at the kitchen table in the safe house and poked occasionally at a computer. He knew how to type, but Larry had reached the point of frustration that called for one hand in his hair, so he was limited to one hand on the keyboard.

Alan pointed at the screen. "What is that?"

Larry followed Alan's finger. "I don't know. Just more extraneous information. I don't understand what sense Charles could have possibly made out of this…data."

Alan straightened. "This is just the stuff they gave him two days ago, right? Didn't Colby say he had more from the computer at the latest crime scene?"

Larry sighed. "Yes. I've loaded that information, and glanced at it, but nothing strikes me as odd. Besides, Charles called Don because he already had something. He was able to find something in this information, somehow."

Alan crossed his arms. "I don't understand. You've helped Charlie out on a lot of cases. Why can't you see it?"

Larry spoke with uncharacteristic sharpness. "Alan, I'm a physicist, not a computer programmer. I can hold my own with Charles in discussions of math, I can talk circles around him in matters of the cosmos…" He suddenly slammed shut the laptop and held his head in both hands, elbows on the table. "I simply don't have the knowledge, the aptitude that he does. I don't process information in the same way — few people do. He probably designed an algorithim to disseminate this information, and that algorithim is on his missing computer."

Alan tried not to speak again until he had his temper under control. He knew that he was being unreasonable. He knew Larry was doing the best he could. But Larry was their best shot at discovering whatever Charlie had discovered, which might lead them to whoever that information threatened. He bit his lip, then opened his mouth to apologize when he was distracted by the chirp of his cell phone, lying on the table next to the computer.

At the first ring, he almost panicked. It must be the hospital. Something had gone wrong with Don. He knew he should have made them let him stay.

The phone rang again, and this time he thought it could be Megan, or one of the guys, calling to tell him they had located Charlie's body. That thought both sickened him and brought him to his senses, because he knew they would never do that do him — tell him over the phone. They had come to the house when Don…

Before the third ring was over he snatched the cell phone from the table and flipped it open. "Hello?"

"Aaaaaa, Adddd."

"Oh my God." Alan sat down heavily in a chair at the table and Larry raised his head to look up at him, startled chewing his fingernails. "Donnie? _Bachor_, is that you?"

"Okay…"

Alan bent his head and placed one hand on his forehead while he clutched the phone so hard he was afraid it might break. "Son. Son. God in Heaven. I'm so happy to hear your voice…I wish I could be with you…"

Alan heard a yawn. "Okay," Don said again. It was obvious Donnie wasn't without medication — but he was awake! He was talking!

"I'll be there as soon as…as soon as I can, _Bachor_. I love you. Charlie and I both want to be there…"

"Okay?" This time, it sounded like a question, and when Alan didn't answer right away, Don tried to string more syllables together. "You okay?"

Alan lifted his head again and looked into Larry's eyes and he felt tears welling up in his own. "Yes, of course, Don…I'm fine. I'll be there soon, all right?"

"Tell Charl…Charl…tell Chuck."

"What, son?"

"Careful. Sharks in water."

_Oh, Donnie_, thought Alan, _if you only knew… _Aloud, he tried to speak soothingly. "I will, son."

"Think I'll sleep now."

"That's good, Don. You should do that."

"'Nite, Daddy."

That did Alan in, and a sob burst out of him before he could stop it, but he managed to move the phone and hoped that Don didn't understand what it was. Then he replaced the phone and spoke to his firstborn one more time. "Good-night, Donnie. Daddy loves you."

He almost disconnected, but heard Cecile's voice, then. "Alan?"

He smiled into the phone. "Cecile. He's awake! How is he?"

"Pretty doped up on morphine at the moment, and it'll be that way for a few days. He probably hasn't felt his other injuries much, but this is the third time he's come around while we're adjusting his traction. This was the first time I could get him coherent enough to talk to you."

"Thank you, so much. Thank you for helping him call me, and thank you for staying with him. It means so much to me — you'll never know. Never."

"I'm glad I can help, Alan." Cecile spoke softly at first, then laughed. "I should go. Don has been obsessed with sharks all day, and they seem to be back."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Megan and David were seated at a table in a conference room, poring over the files again, when Colby burst in and dropped a dozen more file folders on the table. They looked up at him.

Colby stood with his hands on his hips. "I tracked down the brand the perp is branding all his vics with. It was registered in a branding iron database."

Megan looked momentarily confused. "A what?"

"A registry database for branding irons," repeated Colby. "You can register your brand, so your daughter's picture of a house doesn't end up on someone else's cow. I remembered my uncle registering his brand when he bought a farm in Idaho, so I've been searching databases."

David grinned. "So what does it mean?"

Colby sighed. "Nothing."

In an uncharacteristic show of temper, Megan threw the file she was looking at on the table and rose in one motion, then turned on Colby. "Do you think this is funny? Our team leader is blown off a roof, our consultant is missing and _you think this is funny_?"

Colby backed away a little as her voice rose and lifted his hands in mock surrender. "No, no, Megan…I mean 'nothing'. The word listed in the registry is actually 'niainas'. It's from an extinct Baltic language, and its translation is literally 'nothing'."

Megan perched on the edge of the table and stared at Colby. "It can't mean 'nothing'. The brand is the only link we've been able to connect to each victim." She turned to David, distraught. "It can't mean 'nothing'!"

David stood and began to pace the small room, trying to channel Don. Finally he turned and looked at his partners. "I think we have to break it all down," he said. "Since the second victim turned up with this brand, we've looked at these cases as a unit. Maybe there is no unit. Maybe the brand is some sort of elaborate joke, just to mislead us…a smokescreen."

Comprehension dawned on Megan's face. "The cases aren't related at all!", she said excitedly, turning back to the table and scrambling through the files. "The first vic was the real target."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

After Alan finished talking with Cecile, he laid the phone back on the table and smiled at Larry.

"You spoke with Don." Larry stated the obvious.

Alan nodded happily, then frowned. "Larry, I want to apologize for my behavior. I know you're doing the best you can."

"Tsk, Alan, nonsense," insisted Larry. "I'm sure I would be nowhere near as calm as you are, in your shoes. Both your sons in danger…" His voice trailed off, and a look passed Alan's face. Larry placed a hand near his mouth. "What?"

Alan almost leapt from the chair. "That's it! Larry, you're a genius!"

"I appreciate the sentiment, Alan, but I don't understand…" Larry shut up when Alan reached over his shoulder and opened the laptop again.

"We're trying to wear our own shoes to walk where Charlie walked."

"Excuse me?"

Alan waved at the screen impatiently. "Start over. From the beginning. We're thinking the way WE think; not the way Charlie thinks. What's the first thing he would do?"

Larry smiled, suddenly started using both hands on the keyboard. "Take it all apart," he answered. "Categorize it. Organize it. And then try to fit it all back together."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Max could hear the unhappiness and anger in his boss's voice even over the phone, but he persisted in giving him the bad news anyway. "Nicky's having too good a time at this, and if we don't stop him, he's gonna kill the guy. He's already so far gone I'm not sure he could do the work even if he wanted to."

"We'll have to find another way to persuade him, then." The Boss was practically growling.

"What about his family? We could grab one of them…"

He was interrupted. "That won't work. Everybody is in protective custody and under guard."

"Surely a man in your position can get around that."

"You're starting to sound as stupid as Nicky — did he take that sledge hammer to your head while he was at it? Of course I could, but the risks outnumber the possible benefits…" The tone of The Boss's voice changed. "Wait."

Max was hesitant. "Yeah?"

"I know a way. I should have thought of this earlier. Let me contact some people in Boston."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

**A/N: _Bachor_ is a Jewish term of endearment for the firstborn son.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Don hated this.

For 12 minutes of every hour — he'd counted — he was in agony beyond any he had ever known. For the next 24 he was recovering, and for the next 24 he was trying to steel himself for what was to come. He was stuck in an endless loop, and he couldn't get off. Cecile kept giving him shots, and while he wanted to ask her to stop so that his mind would clear and he could think, the thought of that 12 minutes without the shot actually made his testicles shrink.

Not that he told Cecile that.

When it was almost time for another shot, and he was as clear as he was going to get, it would hit him all over again that things were horribly wrong. He knew his father. His Dad would be here if he possibly could. Why couldn't he? Why hadn't any of the team come by to tell him what was happening? And Charlie…every time he thought of Charlie, no matter how drugged he was, his heart would crawl a little farther into his throat. He knew that Charlie was in some sort of trouble, and he wished that someone would tell him what was going on.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The morning after Larry and Alan started all over with the data, Megan appeared excitedly at the door, laden down with a few file folders and grocery bags.

The men had been eating breakfast when their security detail showed her in, and they quickly rose to help her with her bundles.

"I think I got everything you both asked for," she started breathlessly, "and something else! We figured out that the cases aren'r related at all — Charlie somehow saw that, we think." She put the new files on the table and opened them. "We've gone back to the beginning, and we're working this case completely differently."

Alan stood over her shoulder and looked at the print-outs in the folder. Then he straightened and looked at Larry. Alan didn't speak, just backed away and let Larry step up to take a look.

The professor's hand crept toward his hair. "Oh, dear."

Megan knew that gesture, as well as that tone of voice. She and Colby and David had been up most of the night working on this, and all she got was an "Oh, dear"? She glared at Larry. "What does that mean?"

He looked at her sadly, then reached out to turn around the laptop so she could see the screen. "It's just that Alan and I came to the same conclusion ourselves yesterday afternoon. And largely the same results, I'm afraid."

Megan looked at the screen. She sighed. She tried to find something positive to say. "Well…if we all thought of it, maybe we're finally on the right track." She sighed again. "I guess I'll let you guys get back at it." She turned as if to leave, but then remembered the two grocery bags she had placed on the table. She indicated them. "Maybe you should take a break, first. I went by your house, Alan, and your apartment, Larry, and Cal Sci — I brought you all your mail. I thought you might find it distracting."

Alan just nodded his thanks and watched Larry open one of the bags. Alan was disheartened. When he had first seen Megan, she looked so excited…he was sure she would have good news.

Megan saw his melancholy and tried to cheer him. "The hospital called me. Don is doing well."

The mention of Don broke a smile on Alan's face. "Yes. Cecile helped him call me yesterday afternoon. It was wonderful to hear his voice." His smile quickly disappeared. "I wish I could see him…"

Megan touched his arm. "I know, Mr. Eppes, I'm sorry. I want this to be over, too. I'll be going by later this morning myself…I'll try to convey your love, although I know it won't be the same for either of you…" She looked at her watch and sighed. "I need to get back to the office for a few hours first, though."

Larry was engrossed in his mail, so Alan escorted her to the door alone. "Megan, I appreciate…everything you're doing. All of you." He suddenly reached in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, grabbed a $20. He offered it to Megan. "Take some real coffee and maybe some pastries back with you. Tell Colby and David they're from Larry and I."

She smiled and accepted the money. "Thank you, Alan. We were up most of the night, and we've had about all the office swill we can handle. I'm sure the guys will appreciate this." Her voice grew more serious and she touched his arm. "Alan — we'll find Charlie. We'll get him back."

Alan gave Megan a brief hug at the door and watched her drive away, then wandered back to the kitchen table. Larry put aside a letter and reached into the bag for more mail, so Alan started to turn back to the refrigerator. Larry's sudden proclamation stopped him. "Oh. My heavens." Alan came back to the table and Larry looked at him and held up a bubble wrap Cal Sci envelope. "This is from Charles. This is his handwriting."

Alan grabbed it and ripped it open before Larry could. He brought out the thumb drive and handed it to Larry. "What's on this?" He looked again in the envelope to see if there was anything he had missed.

Larry quickly sat and plugged the drive into the laptop, then dragged the data onto his own hard drive. While the information was transferring, Alan looked into his own bag of mail, and excitedly saw an identical envelope. He soon had a second thumb drive for Larry. "Here. This might just be another copy of that, but you'd better look."

When the first thumb drive was transferred, Larry exchanged the drives in the machine, and repeated the process. Alan had moved around to the back of his chair to watch. The seconds were agonizingly slow as they exchanged furtive glances.

Just when Alan was sure he would scream, Larry elicited another "Oh, my", and the two watched in wonder as the two data streams merged, an application completely unfamiliar to Larry was automatically launched, and the binary information began to reformat.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Since Shotgun has sledge hammered his knee, and Charlie had passed out, he had spent a lot of time unconscious.

He had also spent a lot of time being brought to awareness again, just so that Shotgun could find some other way to torture him. Throw water on him. Kick his shattered knee. Laugh at Charlie's groans and distract him from that pain with the cigarette lighter, which Shotgun had decided would work in other places besides Charlie's arm. Wait until Charlie passed out again, throw more water on him, position him against the wall as if he were a Raggedy Andy, and plant calloused fists in Charlie's solar plexus.

Charlie couldn't even name all that had been done to him, and he was beyond refusing to help them, anymore. He didn't even remember that they wanted something from him.

Finally, mercifully, the last time Charlie passed out Max had taken Shotgun out of the room and left him lying on the mattress. His bullet graze was black and blistered. Several other second- and third-degree burns decorated both arms, both bare feet, and his torso, which was also covered with bruises. His knee had swollen as far as his jeans would let it, and pressed against them painfully, wanting to swell more. His nose, broken in one place on the roof and another here in the room, was also swollen, discolored, and throbbed unendingly even in his unconscious state.

Yet despite all the injuries his body had to choose from, it was Charlie's burning ulcer that woke him again. He had consumed nothing but water for almost 48 hours, and he didn't feel hunger, anymore. The burning gave way to an occasional sharp pain, as if he was being stabbed, and it was one of those stabbings that brought him to the surface again.

He opened his eyes and lay for a while mostly on his stomach on the mattress, then tried to sit up. He found that it was impossible. Presently the door opened and feet approached him. He closed his eyes again and waited for Shotgun to finish him off. He knew he wouldn't live through much more.

He heard someone sit on the floor just inches away from his head. Shotgun didn't usually take the time to sit down, first. Maybe it was Max. Charlie hoped it was Max. He seemed…sane, compared to the other one…

"Hello, Charlie."

Charlie tensed. He knew that voice, and it wasn't either of his captors. He found himself unable to open his eyes, not ready to see what he had known since the afternoon he had run the data.

"I underestimated you. Twice. First, I wasn't quite ready for you to figure it out so soon. Oh, I knew that you would — I wanted you to, but I thought it would take a little longer. I should have known better. Second, I never thought you could take Nicky for this long. You're as tough as your brother."

Charlie opened his eyes at that and met those of Director Merrick, Don's boss. "Is he dead?", he whispered.

Merrick shook his head. "Not yet. Tell me what you were going to tell him. Tell me what you know."

Charlie coughed a little and the Director noted the half-empty bottle of water near the foot of the mattress and leaned over to retrieve it, then tried to hand it to Charlie. Charlie just looked at it, so Merrick upcapped it and started to physically pull Charlie's hand away from his body and give it to him, but stopped at the sight of his burned bullet graze. Instead, he tipped the bottle to Charlie's lips himself, and waited while Charlie drank, then took the water away again. He sat it on the floor and continued to look at Charlie. "Tell me," he repeated.

Charlie swallowed. "The cases…aren't related," he finally said. "The branding of each victim was only a smokescreen to make it look like they were. Only the first was a real target. Simpson."

Merrick nodded solemnly. "Go on."

"Simpson's file indicates he once worked as a computer programmer with the DC office." Charlie had a question of his own, now. "Is that where you met him?"

Merrick smiled. "Yes. We both worked there at the same time. That's where we began our own…private enterprise."

Charlie finished for him. "Simpson designed two applications. One tapped unseen in the overseas financial accounts of wealthy crime victims. The other funneled funds into your own overseas account."

Merrick nodded again. "Correct. You are worth your fee, Dr. Eppes."

"So why did you kill him? The two of you have been doing this successfully for years."

"I think you know why. The people we took the money from are so wealthy, they didn't even notice. We were careful not to be greedy. I retire in a few years, and this was my nest egg. But Simpson decided his cut wasn't big enough. He documented all the activity, intending to use it to keep me silent, and then raided my account. When I checked the balance a few months ago, I saw what he was doing."

"Killing…" Charlie stopped to cough again, then went on. "Killing him ensures you'll never get the money back."

"That's where you come in," stated Merrick. "You have the data from his computer. It's encrypted, but what does that matter to you?" His voice changed, became less friendly and more threatening, somehow. "Break it. Find out where he moved my money, and move it back. Then destroy all the evidence he accumulated."

Charlie closed his eyes again and shook his head. "No."

Merrick was silent for a while. Then, "I have something to show you."

Against his better judgement, Charlie opened his eyes again and saw the Director remove a newspaper clipping from his pocket. He unfolded it and held it close enough so that Charlie could read the headline, and see the photo. It took Charlie a moment to focus his bleary eyes enough to read, but he could tell that the photo was one of Amita, so he forced himself to do it: "Harvard Professor's Ritualistic Slaying Linked to Several More in Los Angeles".

A whimper escaped Charlie and he tried to push himself up again.

"Ritualistic." Merrick shook his head and put the article on the floor beside him. "They're calling it that just because of the brand in her forehead. There was nothing 'ritualistic' about it. A simple struggle — a broken neck."

"Oh, God…"

"Understand this," said Merrick lowly, leaning closer to Charlie. "My people will do this to your father. To your brother. To every friend you have ever had." Charlie whimpered again and began to choke a little on unshed tears. The Director reached out and slapped him on the back, continuing his speech. "One every 6 hours." He spoke almost conversationally. "Until you do what I brought you here to do." His voice dropped to a whisper. "And before they kill them, Charlie, they will tell them what they told her — that Charlie sent them. Your family will die knowing that you killed them."

With that Merrick pushed himself off the floor, gently shoved the laptop close to the mattress again with his feet. "All charged up and ready to go," he said. "If I were you — I'd pull myself together and start working."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Larry wrinkled his brow. "This is odd."

Alan leaned over to look at the screen. "What?"

"This document is a list started by Charlie. 'Ask Don", it says. There are a few questions. 'Why did S leave DC?' and 'When was M assigned to DC?'"

"Why are questions for Don odd?"

"It's not that. It's all this documentation in the same folder. It shows that Don's boss — Director Merrick — he rents a boat storage facility near the marina."

"Okay…I guess it's odd that Charlie would bother to find that out and document it, and want to show it to Don…"

Larry looked at Alan. "Yes, but it's also odd that Director Merrick would rent a boat storage facility. Charles once told me a very funny story regarding Mr. Merrick and the sea. The poor gentleman was horrendously seasick all over the Vice President of the United States. Charles was trying to make me feel better — at the time I was being horrendously seasick myself."

Alan nodded. "Last year, when the two of you went charter fishing."

"Correct. So perhaps he was exaggerating for my benefit…he said that Merrick is notorious for his seasickness, to the point where Colby makes staff meetings shorter by swaying almost imperceptibly until Merrick turns green."

Alan smiled, and Larry continued musing. "It's just odd that a man so infamously seasick would need a boat storage facility…"

Alan looked toward the screen of the laptop again. "Let's see what else Charlie found."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"Please don't."

Cecile hesitated, syringe at the IV port. "Don, the morphine is barely controlling your pain during traction. In a few days, you'll be stronger. Your other injuries will be improved. We can switch to something else then. Demerol, probably."

"Tell me, first," Don slurred.

Cecile's discomfort increased. She didn't want to be the one to tell Don about Charlie. She wasn't sure if his head injury had affected his memory of the roof, maybe his entire short-term memory…he might not remember going to Cal Sci at all. It was too soon to test those things. He needed more rest. She stalled. "Tell you what?"

He lifted a hand slowly, managed to brush her elbow. "How much you love me," he said, startling Cecile so badly that she almost dropped the syringe.

She managed to pull herself together enough to inject the medication into the IV solution, walk to the sharps container on the wall to dispose of the needle, and walk back to the bed. She leaned over the rail and ran a hand through Don's hair. His eyes had drifted shut, and she was pretty sure Morpheus had already taken him. "Of course I love you," she said lightly and softly, and moved her hand down to caress his cheek.

Don startled her once again when he leaned his head into her hand and yawned. "Good," he said tiredly, never opening his eyes. "Cuz I love you, too."

Suspended over the rail, suspended in time, Cecile listened to Don start snoring — and smiled.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Larry looked at Alan with wide eyes and grabbed for the cell phone still on the table. "We have to call Megan!"

"No!" Alan reached the phone first, and he protected it from Larry. "We can't."

Larry looked at him in confusion. "Why not?"

Alan stood, with the phone. "Don't you see? If Merrick is involved, nothing related to the FBI is safe. Not this house. Not the security. Not Megan's phone." He saw the look on Larry's face and hastened to clarify. "Megan's _phone_, Larry — I believe we can still trust Don's team."

Larry's hand approached his mouth. "Then what can we do?"

Alan looked at his phone and made a decision. "I'm calling Merrick."

Larry gasped. "_What_? Are you mad?"

Alan started punching numbers. "I'll tell him that we'll trade. Information for Charlie." He looked at Larry, silently daring him to protest further, lifted the phone to his ear.

After nearly giving himself tennis elbow negotiating the automated answering system at the FBI, Alan eventually found himself connected to an actual person — Merrick's secretary. He asked to speak with the Director, identifying himself.

"I was so sorry to hear about both your sons, Mr. Eppes."

Alan, impatient, tried to be polite. "Thank you. The Director?"

"He just stepped out of the office for a few minutes. He's actually going by Huntington to see Don. If you would like to leave a …"

Politeness out the window, Alan disconnected, dropped the phone on the table and looked at Larry. "My God. I've got to get to Don."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Director Merrick drove toward Huntington. He wasn't wearing his gun, although it would be easy enough for a man of his position to get past hopital security. Of course he couldn't let Agent Eppes live, eventually he would have to kill him, but he would try just to find out what he knew, for now. He didn't know if Dr. Eppes had time to tell his brother anything. Merrick had instructed his people to do the father, next. He glanced at the digital clock in the dashboard of the vehicle. Old man had about four hours left, by his reckoning.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Larry's eyes grew wide. "Alan, this is insanity."

Alan looked at him, determined, and Larry suddenly understood Charles' stubborn streak a little better. "This is the only way. It has to be now — Merrick is on his way to Huntington. All you have to do is distract him."

Larry chewed his fingernails for a moment, then dropped his hand to his side and sighed. He advanced toward the kitchen door, and Alan faded into the open pantry. Larry stopped near the door and opened a cupboard, taking out a glass. Checking behind him to make sure that Alan was out of sight, Larry turned back toward the door, squeezed his eyes shut, and threw the glass across the room, shattering it against the wall.

While the FBI agent assigned to their security detail struggled with the locked kitchen door, Larry approached the littering of glass, retrieved a piece, and just had enough time to slice it across a finger before the agent, gun drawn, appeared in the doorway. "What happened?"

Larry looked at him and allowed his blood to drip on the floor. "I'm so sorry. I broke a glass. I seem to have cut myself…"

The agent holstered his weapon and grabbed a towel off a counter. He started toward Larry. "Let me help," he said. "How bad is it?"

Approaching from the pantry behind the agent, Alan told himself that he had to do it. He would make the man a nice brisket later, if it turned out that he wasn't involved. While the agent peered at Larry's finger, Alan raised the frying pan, thought of his sons, and slammed it into the back of the agent's head.

He dropped like a stone, nearly pulling Larry with him, and the professor and the father stood and looked at him. They finally spoke, simultaneously.

"Have you killed him?"

"How badly did you cut yourself? I said 'distract him', Larry, not 'bleed all over him'!"

Larry looked at his finger, which was still bleeding and could probably use a stitch or two. He picked the towel up off the floor where the agent had dropped it and wrapped up his finger. "It's nothing. It's fine."

Alan looked at him a moment trying to judge the veracity of that statement. Finally satisfied, he leaned over the agent's body and touched a shaking hand to his neck. He was relieved almost beyond words to find a steady pulse. He started to feel around under the agent's jacket for his handcuffs. "He's not dead," Alan informed his partner in crime. Once he found the cuffs, he relieved the agent of them and straightened a little, kicked some glass out of he way and leaned again to roll the agent slowly onto his back. He brought the man's hands together. He had some difficulty at first because the agent was wearing a shoulder holster, and his limp arm kept catching on the gun, so Alan reached under his jacket and took the gun out, laid it on the floor, and then tried again. Finally he was able to handcuff the man's hands together. Then he patted his pockets until he found a set of keys, reached in and took them. Finally, straightening again, he brought the gun from the floor with him.

He started to lay it on the counter, then reconsidered and reached around behind himself, sticking it in the waistband of his jeans.

Larry's eyes, already wide, grew so much more so that it was almost comical. "Alan! Surely you're not taking a gun!"

Alan didn't answer.

Larry tried again. "Huntington probably has detectors at the door."

Alan shrugged. "Don's not in general population. You have to go through a service entrance to get to where he is, punch in a security code — Megan showed me all that, to reassure me, before I would leave with her."

Larry continued to protest. "It's not safe, handling a weapon you're not trained…"

Alan flashed angry eyes at him and Larry trailed off. "I know how they work, Larry. I have a gun of my own, at home in the safe. When Margaret and I decided to get one for protection, we took a class, so we would know how to use it."

The agent stirred a little on the floor, but was soon still again.

"You might want to sweep some of this glass up," said Alan, stepping over it to the kitchen door. Once there, he looked back at Larry. "Give me half an hour. Then you can call Megan." He stepped through the door and pulled it shut behind him, then immediately opened it again and looked at Larry, who was still standing over the agent. "Take care of that finger," he said, and then he disappeared again.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Megan and David leaned over her desk, both looking in horror at the front page of the newspaper.

As they read they could hear Colby. He stood at his own desk, clutching a fax and shouting into the phone. "I want to know how this got leaked to the press before we even knew about it! What about interdepartmental cooperation? You received the alert just like every other office! How can we do our jobs with this kind of shit going on!"

Megan sank into her chair and spoke, not looking at David. "I have to to back to the house. I have to tell Larry and Alan this. Dear God, it's going to destroy what small amount of equilibrium they've been able to hang onto…" She was interrupted by her cell phone. She unclipped it from her waist, checked caller ID and looked briefly at David. "It's Larry. I hope he didn't start cruising the internet and find out about this himself…" She flipped the phone open. "Agent Reeves."

Megan stood and walked to the front of the desk. She listened for a moment, then tried to speak soothingly. "Larry, Larry, please. Calm down. I can't understand what you're saying." Then she looked at David again, and he watched her eyes get wide. "You and Alan did what? Why?" David saw the color drain from her face and she repeated herself, her voice raising an octave and enough decibels that even Colby looked at her. "YOU AND ALAN DID WHAT?"

She suddenly flipped the cell shut, spinned and took off in a dead run for the elevator. She just barely got the phone back on her belt in time to start slamming a hand into the "down" button. While she waited for the lift, she turned to call David and Colby, but found she didn't have to

They were already standing behind her.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie didn't care about the pain. In fact, he welcomed the pain. He deserved the pain. He had gotten Amita killed, Don shot, put targets on his father and Larry.

He didn't cry out as he used both arms to push himself into a sitting position on the mattress. Then he used both hands to lift his injured leg, while he used the other foot to pivot his body a little so that he was facing the room at large, facing the computer, the water…the newspaper clipping, Amita's smiling face staring up at him…

He let go of his injured leg and let it drop a foot to the mattress, not even cringing as it hit.

He knew what he had to do, and he looked around for a way to do it.

He looked at his feet. He was barefoot. They had taken his tennis shoes, so there were no shoelaces. That wouldn't work.

His eyes traveled to the computer. Could a person electrocute themselves somehow with the components of a wireless laptop?

He took in the almost empty bottle of water. Was there enough left to pour into his broken nose and drown himself somehow?

If only Shotgun had left the sledge hammer…he would crack open his own head. If he could die, if he could just die, then Merrick would have no reason to kill anyone else he loved.

There had to be a way to die.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Director Merrick smiled at the security detail outside Don's room. "I'll be with him for a while, Mike" he said, friendly. "Why don't you go to the cafeteria for some coffee? Take a break."

The young agent wasn't sure what made him happier — that Director Merrick actually knew his name, or that he could get out of this boring, empty hall for a few minutes, maybe chat up a few nurses in the cafeteria…

As if reading his mind, Merrick made a suggestion. "In fact, why not take that pretty little nurse in there with you. I understand she's been glued to Agent Eppes since he was brought in." Merrick pushed open the door and Cecile, who was sitting in a chair near the bed reading a paperback, looked up. Merrick introduced himself as Don's boss, the Director of the L.A. office. "You look like you could use a few minutes to decompress. Why don't you take a break? I'm very impressed with the reports I have been receiving of your dedication."

She didn't look inclined to leave, so he stepped it up a notch. "Agent Davis will escort you to the cafeteria for a while. I need to speak with Agent Eppes in private. About the case."

Cecile stood, but still hesitated. She looked at Don. "He's asleep, and he's due for traction again in less than half an hour."

Merrick drew himself up and took a step forward, to show that he was a man to be respected. "I'll be brief, nurse."

Cecile finally took one last look at Don and reluctantly left with Agent Davis.

Merrick walked to the bed and observed Don for a while, took in his suspended leg. He reached out and pushed the hammock, and the leg began to sway.

As Merrick had known it would, that woke Don up right away. He opened glassy eyes and looked to see if it was already time for someone to hook him up again, but he saw only his boss standing over him. Maybe he was having some weird morphine dream again. Merrick could be mistaken with a shark, couldn't he?

"Agent Eppes. Good to see you awake."

Don swallowed. "Director?"

Merrick smiled, crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Correct. I am not a dream. A nightmare, perhaps…" he tried to laugh, to put Don at ease, but it wasn't something he had much practice at. He cut right to the chase. He was on a time schedule, here. "Agent Eppes, I'd like to know what you remember, about your…injury."

Don swallowed again and tried to clear his hazy mind. "What?"

Merrick tried again. "Why did you go to Cal Sci? Did your brother call you with information on the data you gave him?"

Don closed his eyes and tried to think. Did Charlie call him? If he had gone to Cal Sci, he must have. He opened his eyes again and looked at Merrick in drugged confusion. "Maybe…"

This wasn't working. Merrick decided to try to use shock to cut through the muddle. He leaned casually over the rail, placing his face only inches from Don's. "Perhaps you remember shooting your brother."

Don's eyes grew wide, and Merrick straightened again. Now he almost couldn't stop himself from laughing.

"I…what?"

"A roof, Agent Eppes, do you remember being on the roof of the building in which your brother works? We found your service weapon there, and it had been discharged. The bullet was also located, covered with Charlie's DNA. Someone shot your brother with your weapon. Was it you?"

Charlie was shot? Is that why he and Dad couldn't be here? This had to be another morphine dream. It had to. This could not be true. Don was still trying to make sense of it all when he the door opened again.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Alan was in such a panic that he got the code wrong the first time he tried to let himself in the service entrance.

At least, he hoped he had. He hoped they hadn't changed it!

He forced himself to calm down, and enter it more slowly — and the door popped open.

Rushing down the corridor toward Don's suite of rooms, he soon saw that there was no agent working security at the door, as there should have been. He was terrified that he was too late.

He rushed through the door, and saw Director Merrick standing close — too close — to Don's bed. Don was looking up at him with frightened and confused eyes. Alan didn't think. He shifted to automatic pilot, and part of his memory he didn't realize was working reached behind him, and drew the gun from the waist of his jeans. He leveled it at Merrick. "Step away from my son."

Director Merrick turned toward the door, saw Alan with the gun, and actually laughed. "Who do you think you're kidding? You can't shoot me."

Don was sure now that he was dreaming. This was crazier than the shark attack. His dad was holding his boss at gunpoint? Some lines should never be crossed, even during a morphine haze. "Dad…" Don was slurring. "Not a good idea…"

Alan willed himself to stop shaking. He held Merrick's eyes with his own. "Would Don do it, Director? If our positions were reversed, and I was in that bed, and he was standing here, would he do it?" Merrick didn't answer right away, and Alan continued, his voice growing stronger with each word. "Because I've got news for you. Where do you think he got his _cojones_ in the first place?" He took a step closer to Merrick, whose smile had faded. "Remember your Saturday morning cartoons? Think of me as a transformer. You threaten my boys — you harm them — and I become something you do not want to see. Step away from the bed."

Merrick couldn't believe he was being intimidated by a 70-year-old man who looked remarkably like a near-sighted teddy bear. He did step away from the bed a little, but only to threaten the idiot. "You kill me — you will never find Charlie."

Alan bluffed. Later, he was never sure where the inspiration had even come from. "He's in your boat storage facility, near the marina. Don's team is getting him right now."

He knew he had guessed correctly when Merrick blanched. "How did you…"

Merrick's question was interrupted by Don. "I want the sharks back."

Alan slid a round into the chamber, the click a resounding echo in the room. "Remember my reference to _cojones_, Director? Put yourself on the floor. Spread-eagle — right now — or I promise you, I will shoot yours off. I will kill you slowly, in pieces." The sound of his own voice, the truth of his words, frightened even Alan. "And I will enjoy it."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The agents broke into a run when they saw that Davis was not posted outside Don's door, as he should have been. Megan was in the lead, and Colby and David scrambled to cover her as she crashed through the door to Don's room.

Once inside, she looked with shock upon the scene. Director Merrick was spread-eagle on the floor. Alan Eppes stood over him, a service weapon trained on the back of Merrick's head.

Don leered happily and proudly at her from the bed. "Megan, hey Megan! This is a great morphine ride, man. Look what my Dad did!"

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

**A/N: You go, Alan! This scene is actually borrowed from life. Someday soon I will inherit the rifle my grandfather used almost 100 years ago to shoot a man's nuts off. Some people just should not be pissed off.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Max and Nicky stood in shock over the mattress. Nicky spoke first, after swallowing nervously. "How do you think he did that?"

Max looked at the destroyed computer. "That crash we heard. He was breaking that thing into pieces. He found a sharp one…" He shook his head, watched the blood flow from Charlie's wrists and soak into the mattress. "Damn. Guess there's no point in…" He glanced at Nicky, then back at Charlie. "…pretty much anything, anymore."

Nicky bent over Charlie's form, touched fingers to his neck. "He's still alive."

Max looked again at the blood. "Not for long. And say we save him. You gonna put that machine back together?"

Nicky looked nervously toward the door. "I'm not telling Merrick."

Max's eyes followed Nicky's. "Tell him? Hell, I'm not gonna be in this country when he comes back here and finds out."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"Heads up. Somebody's coming out."

Armed with Alan and Larry's information, agents were positioning themselves around the boat storage facility, nearly caught in the act when the door opened and two men spilled out.

"Let them go," said Megan into her microphone. "Perimeter units, stop them before they get to the highway." She glanced at David. "Heat sensors showed three bodies inside. There went two of them."

He nodded. "Charlie's gotta be the other one. He has to be."

Colby squatted near them. "I want in there as badly as anybody," he said. "You know the drill. Wait for confirmation."

The three waited for seven agonizing minutes, checking their watches, before Megan's radio squawked.

"Can't shut these guys up. Almost had to shoot 'em just so we could read 'em their rights."

Megan interrupted. "What?"

The voice came back. "Your guy's in there alone. You can go after him." Megan, David and Colby were on their feet, and almost didn't hear the last part. "They said you should hurry. He's dying."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Alan waited nervously in the emergency department ambulance bay for Charlie's arrival, with the hospital security guard who had been assigned to accompany him there. He paced back and forth and thought about the last three days, and most specifically the last 15 minutes in Don's room. Just when he was sure that he should leave, go to the storage facility himself, he saw an ambulance approaching, and recognized the FBI SUV careening in behind it.

The guard held him back as the doors to the ambulance burst open, and Alan watched doctors from the ER descend upon the gurney. He couldn't get a good look at Charlie. He only knew that it was Charlie because he'd caught a glimpse of his dark curls as the gurney was rushed past him. All too soon he was standing alone with the guard again.

The man put an arm loosely around Alan's back. "Come on." He spoke gently. "I'll take you to the waiting area."

Alan allowed himself to be escorted inside. He felt as if he were having an out-of-body experience. Nothing was making much sense to him. Shapes and colors whirled past him, but he couldn't tell if they were people or not. He found himself sitting, and wasn't even sure how he got there. Colby was kneeling in front of him, David was standing worriedly behind Colby, and the hospital security guard was offering him a bottle of water.

"Mr. Eppes?"

He focused on Colby. "Yes."

"Drink some water, Mr. Eppes." Colby snatched the water from the guard and opened it, offered it to Alan. "You're getting shocky on us."

Alan obediently took the water and drank, handed it back to Colby. He breathed deeply. "I'm sorry."

Colby smiled. "Color's coming back, you're okay. Don't worry about it."

Alan suddenly reached out and grabbed Colby's arm in a vise grip. "I couldn't see Charlie."

Colby placed his free hand over Alan's. "He's alive, Alan. We've got him, now. It's over."

Alan let go of Colby's arm and buried his face in both hands.

Over?

Why did Alan feel as if it were just beginning?

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don glared at Cecile. "No."

She tried to reason with him, but in truth she was sort-of on his side. Still, she located her inner nurse. "You need this. You've had all the usual traction, plus a relocation to a new room…"

"I know my rights. You can't give that to me if I refuse it."

She sighed. "Please. For me."

He softened. "Ceec…I'm sorry. I need a few hours of clarity. I'll go through this next traction without it, and I won't complain, okay? Then you bring Megan in here. I need to know that's been going on with my family."

His voice almost took on a begging quality at the end, and he didn't even care.

Cecile stared at him for a moment, then lowered the capped syringe back to her pocket, and started for his leg, to hook up the traction again.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Not even 25 minutes later, after his unmedicated traction and a few minutes spent trying to pull himself back to center, Don watched Megan enter the room. He didn't even wait for her to get all the way to the bed.

"Tell me what happened."

After she did — after she told him about Charlie discovering Merrick's involvement; after she confirmed for him that he had shot Charlie on the roof; after she detailed the kidnapping and three days of torture that Charlie had endured since then; after she told him about Amita; after she listed for him the extent of his brother's injuries; after she assured him that Charlie was alive and in surgery and his Dad would be back with news soon — after all that, Don looked at Cecile, and nodded, and let her give him the morphine.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Torture.

It was a word he had used often, himself.

He had thought of the last three days as "torturous". Days he couldn't be with Don. Days he did not know where Charlie was. Days that culminated with him finding within himself the will, the desire, the power to kill another human being.

He was so glad they had Charlie back.

But he had been tortured. His baby was burned, bruised, cut, broken. Megan had found the newspaper clipping on the floor, so even though Charlie was unconscious when they found him and ever since, Alan knew that they had tortured his mind, and his heart, as well as his body.

For what?

For money? Merrick had killed all those people, tortured his boy, for money?

Alan found himself wishing that he had killed him when he'd had the chance.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don endured four more treatments, and the morphine was starting to wear off a little, before his Dad finally came into his room.

He watched his father hug Cecile warmly, and then approach the head of the bed and sink wearily into a chair before looking at him.

"How are you, son?"

Don tried to put his hand through the bed rail, but it was tethered to an IV pole and he had some difficulty. Alan noted his struggles and snaked his hand through instead, and gently rubbed Don's wrist.

"Charlie?"

"He's in recovery. Things took a little longer than planned."

Don stiffened. "Why?"

Alan rubbed his free hand over his face and sighed. "Well, they had to chase down quite a few pieces of patella, flush them out…Charlie gets to live without a knee cap, now. I didn't even realize that was an option. I thought they'd replace it, or something. And then there was the ligament and tendon damage, both 'anterior' and 'lateral', whatever that means…" Alan seemed to lose his focus for a moment, then shook his head and continued talking. "He had a couple of units of blood. He lost a lot…in that place…"

That sounded…bad, but didn't really account for everything Don thought he could see on his father's face. "Is there something else? His ulcer didn't perforate again or something?"

Alan shook his head. "No, no, not yet, anyway. They're watching that pretty closely, and started some of those medications again. The ones he was on back then."

God, Alan sounded tired. "Then what?", Don persisted.

"There's an infection that could slow things down. They had to do quite a bit of work on his arm, cleaning it out…"

Don looked away and pulled his hand out from under his father's. "Megan told me I shot him."

Alan's fingers found Don's wrist again. "No-one believes that, Donnie."

Don shook his head, wouldn't look at him. "It was my gun. My bullet."

Alan spoke with conviction. "Events…transpired. You were shot. Charlie changed his position. It happened. It was an accident." Don didn't answer, so Alan kept going. "Besides, it wasn't that serious. A graze. It was what they did to him after…" Suddenly Alan's voice broke, and Don looked back at him quickly. "Dear God, Don, they tortured him."

Don swallowed. "I know. I know."

They sat silently for a few seconds. Cecile finally spoke.

"Would you like…I mean…I know this is a private room, but we could get two beds in here. It would be close, but then you wouldn't have to run from one room to the other, Alan, and you could see him, Don…"

Don looked at her gratefully. He was completely sober, the drug still left in his system overrun by his conversation with his father…and Alan was sitting right there listening…but Don said it anyway. "I love you, Ceec."

Alan watched her blush, and for a moment, for a millisecond — he was almost happy.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

By late afternoon Cecile had convinced the Director of Nursing Services to go along with her plan, and had supervised Charlie's move from recovery into Don's room. There was just enough room between the beds for Alan's chair, and he sat, relieved, one hand on a part of each son, for exactly 19 minutes before he began to put his worries into words. "Shouldn't he be awake?"

Cecile was standing at the foot of Don's bed, watching his new floor nurse prepare the traction. Since Don was back in the general patient population and the crisis was over, Cecile was no longer acting as his nurse. She would, in fact, return to her regular schedule the next day, and was planning to leave soon, although she hated to go. She knew she needed to get some rest…but she was waiting until she was sure everybody was settled.

She left Don to his nurse — taking one last, quick glance at his sleeping face — and walked to the far side of Charlie's bed. She put a practiced hand to his forehead, then checked his respirations, and pulse. She leaned over the bed to adjust the pillows under his leg, which was encased in a nearly full-length brace, locking his knee at a slight angle that would be adjusted daily for a while, until he graduated to a different, more lightweight brace and began his physical therapy. When his doctor had told Alan that Charlie would begin PT within a week — and that was a slower schedule than usual, because of the infection — Alan had been stunned.

Cecile smiled at Alan. "He's fine. The doctor told you he's probably be out for the rest of the night."

Don began to stir as the traction process began, and Alan turned his attention to him. He patted Don's arm soothingly. "It's all right, Donnie."

Don turned his head carefully toward his father's voice. Too much head movement, and the room still spinned. Presently, he opened his eyes. He grinned a little. "Shark's back."

"Would you like…", his nurse began, but he cut her off.

"No. I'm fine. No more morphine. Ever."

She shook her head and headed for the door, calling over her shoulder. "I'll be back in 11 minutes!"

As she left the room, Don let his gaze seek out Charlie in the bed a few feet away. He looked again at his father. "Awake?"

Alan shook his head. "Not yet. Cecile says that he's fine, though."

Don moved his head again and saw Cecile on the other side of the bed. He smiled dreamily. "You're still here…"

She smiled back. "I wanted to say 'good-night' before I left. I've been waiting for you to wake up."

Alan watched his son watch Cecile, glanced quickly at Charlie, then stood from his chair and stretched. "I'm going for some coffee," he said, and was out the door before they could protest — although he noticed that neither one of them did. Alan walked slowly down the corridor, rubbing the back of his neck. _Well,_ he mused, smiling, _Donnie won't take any more morphine…maybe Cecile can help him concentrate on something besides the traction for awhile…_

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Having been kept from both sons for over three days, Alan would entertain no discussions of his leaving, and he slept in the chair between their beds. Don would never admit it, but the sound of his father's snoring actually helped him sleep, and made the transition from Morphine to Demoral a little easier.

When Charlie began to stir around 4 a.m., Alan jerked awake. He stood so he could get a good look at Charlie's face. From the side, all he saw was the tape on his nose. Both of Charlie's eyes were black and swollen, but they cracked open, and focused on his father. His mouth started to work, but no sound came out, and he swallowed painfully. Alan noticed and offered him a sip of water.

Charlie automatically drank when the straw was placed in his mouth, and his eyes opened a little farther. Alan replaced the water on the rolling table and smoothed Charlie's curls from his forehead. He was relieved that although warmer than he should be, Charlie wasn't burning up. He spoke quietly, so he wouldn't disturb Don. "How are you feeling, son?"

Charlie blinked a few times, seemed to turn and see Don, then looked back at his father. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Alan frowned. "Sorry? This wasn't your fault, Charlie."

Charlie started to shake his head, and closed his eyes again. "You're not real," he said, "I know neither of you are really here. I wish I could tell you…"

Alan leaned over the bed rail a little. He put a hand on Charlie's arm, above the bandage on the wrist, and gently squeezed. "We're real, son, we're here…" To his dismay he saw one large tear squeeze out of Charlie's closed eye and run lazily down his cheek, until Alan caught it with his other hand.

"No…", Charlie was insisting. "I had to. I'm sorry. There was no time…and…and Merrick was going to kill you next…like…like…her…" His eyes opened again, wide this time, and he looked pleadingly at Alan. "I didn't want to leave, Dad, but I had to do something to…to save you…and Don. Larry."

Alan's moved his hand and placed it lightly over the bandage on Charlie's wrist. Even through it he could feel his son's pulse increasing. "Shh…son, it's all right…"

Charlie feebly raised the wrist his father wasn't holding a few inches, then dropped it to the bed again. "I used the metal," he said, closing his eyes again. "I knew when I was dead, he wouldn't have…any reason to go after you anymore…I'm sorry…I'm sorry…" His voice began to fade as he drifted toward sleep again. "I wish I wasn't dead…"

Alan felt his knees suddenly give out, and was glad the chair was right behind him. He sat down hard, still watching Charlie for a few moments. Then he lowered his face to his hands. What had Charlie done? What had Merrick driven Charlie to do? He rocked back and forth in the chair, hands still in his face, trying not to scream out his rage. When he was calmer, he lifted his face again, sighed and settled back in the chair. He turned his head to check on Don, and, startled, looked directly into his eyes, which were brimming with tears. Don's hand stretched out toward him, and Alan snaked his own hand through the rail and took it.

The two sat, silently. There was nothing to say. Anything at all would somehow dilute the enormity of Charlie's sacrifice.

So Alan sat, and Don lay, and they held hands, and waited for the sun to come up.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Language warning. One very bad word. Bad Charlie, Bad.**

**Chapter 16**

The next time Charlie woke up, several hours later, he seemed to have no memory of his early-morning confession, and he appeared convinced that they were all still alive. He was frightened, asking to hear the details of Don's condition several times, and almost unaccountably upset that Don couldn't move from his bed until the weeks of traction came to a close.

The longer he stayed awake, the more apprehensive he became, anxious to see Larry so he could know for himself that his friend was all right. He started every time the door opened — which, with Don's hourly traction sessions in addition to monitoring the condition of both men — was fairly often. He grew steadily more quiet, and tense. He was reluctant to close his eyes and go back to sleep, even though his body continued to fight the infection in his arm and everyone kept telling him to. Finally, his doctor ordered a mild sedative, and Charlie was out again by the time Larry arrived late that afternoon, when his classes were over.

Larry spoke quietly with Alan and Don for a while. By the time Charlie was awake again, fuzzy from the sedative, Don had a headache from Larry's long-winded version of the thumb drives. He kept trying to get him to move on to the exciting stuff — he wanted to hear about his old man taking down a seasoned FBI agent with a frying pan — but Larry seemed to find the application Charlie had designed on a moment's notice infinitely more exciting. When Larry turned his attention to Charlie, Don was more than ready for another shot of Demerol and was actually looking forward to his next experience with traction.

Larry approached Charlie's bed with a smile. He had taken in the battered appearance of his friend when he had first arrived, and by now he could look at him without cringing. "Charles. It's good to see you."

Charlie looked at him silently for a moment. He saw his father hovering over Larry. "Je me sens malade, le Papa," he suddenly whispered, closing his eyes again. "Pouvez-vous garer mon chevai…"

Larry's smile broadened and Alan poked him in the back. "What was that?"

Larry turned to Alan. "French. I don't believe Charles is quite ready for us, yet."

Alan raised an eyebrow. "French? What did he say?"

"My own French is a bit rusty, and rudimentary at best," answered Larry, still smiling, "but I believe he told you that he's not feeling well, and asked if you could park his horse."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don and Charlie's room soon became Grand Central, with the arrival of Megan, Colby and David just as Larry was leaving for a faculty meeting. Charlie slept through their visit, and they kept it brief with Don, telling him and Alan that Max and Nicky were dealing, with the information they had on Merrick. Massachusetts, where Amita was killed, was a non death-penalty state; but California, where the other murders had occurred, was not, and the state's attorney was already talking capital punishment. The team left when Don's dinner arrived, but Alan noted Don's lack of enthusiasm as he picked at it.

"Can I get you something else? Maybe something from the cafeteria?"

Don offered his Dad a sheepish grin. "It's stupid, I know — the guy was going to kill all of us, he is responsible for the death of…" Don cleared his throat and pushed the tray aside. "Anyway. Then there's all the financial stuff, all those people he ripped off. It's just weird. He's my boss. The Director. I can't wrap my head around it."

Alan nodded and was about to speak when the door opened again, this time allowing Cecile entry. She rushed to Don's bed. "I'm sorry, I meant to check on you earlier, the floor has been crazy today, I didn't even get a lunch break and I've only stolen 15 minutes for dinner…"

Both Alan and Don laughed, and the noise roused Charlie again, but just enough to roll his head to the other side of the pillow, protesting quietly in his sleep.

Cecile looked at him. "Sorry. Is he still out?"

"He was a little…tense. Doctor finally gave him a sedative." Alan rose and offered his chair to Cecile. "Sweetheart, why don't you sit here and finish Don's dinner."

She looked at the tray of hospital food, then back at Alan. "You're kidding, right?"

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By the time Cecile was ready to leave — promising to be back in a few hours when her shift was over — Don talked Alan into leaving and getting some dinner himself in the cafeteria. Don heaved a sigh of relief as the door swung shut behind them. For days he was virtually alone, save for whichever nurse happened to be there whenever he woke up, and now he couldn't seem to get a moment to himself. He sighed happily and shifted a bit in the bed. Too much family. Too many friends. Wonderful problems to have.

Presently, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charlie lift a hand and scratch his forehead. Don was surprised. He hadn't known that Charlie was awake. He turned his head to look more fully at him, but the bed rails and the splinted, bandaged nose kept Don from getting much detail. Maybe he had done that in his sleep?

"Charlie?"

Enough time went by that Don had just about given up and turned away, deciding that Charlie had scratched his head in his sleep, when he heard a quiet, "Yes."

Don found himself scrambling for conversation. "Um…Larry was here. I don't know if you remember…you were speaking French at the time. Anyway. He had to leave — faculty meeting — but he left you a note. It's on that rolling table, I think." Charlie didn't say anything, so Don pressed. "Can you reach it? It's almost time for my traction again, the nurse will be in soon."

"I saw it. Thank you."

Charlie sounded like he was ordering a cheeseburger at the McDonald's drive-thru. Polite, detached. It worried Don a little, but he didn't know what else he should say. Sorry about that whole kidnap-torture thing? Really upsetting, how my boss drove you to attempt suicide? Hope you're not too bummed about one of your best friends being murdered? What's life like without a patella?

He finally settled for the briefest rendition of truth he could think of. "Sorry…about…everything."

Charlie didn't respond for a while, and Don almost gave up again. Then, so quiet he almost didn't hear it: "Not your fault."

"No, Charlie…but I can still be sorry." He waited in the silence for a moment, and then added something. "It wasn't your fault either, you know."

Don heard a tremendous, heartbreaking sigh, and knew he had hit a nerve. "I called you to Cal Sci."

Don wished he could get out of the damn bed. He wanted to see Charlie's face. "Buddy. You told me to wait in your office. And even if you hadn't, calling me doesn't make any of this your fault."

"I let her help me. When she was here. Brought her into the office. Introduced her to that…that…fucking pig."

Don physically jerked at Charlie's uncharacteristic language, and quietly swore as his leg reacted to the movement. He hoped Charlie hadn't heard that. He gave himself a moment to think of what he should say next, and get the pain under control. "It wasn't you, Charlie. It was him. He's the only one to blame."

"I…I don't feel well."

Don felt an edge of panic on the black weight he was beginning to feel in his chest. His leg already hurt. Maybe he should just get up. He started to reach for the call button. "What is it? I'll call for someone."

Charlie's voice rose, started to sound angry. "No!" He took a breath, and Don could tell he was trying to calm himself down. His voice was softer again when he spoke next. "No, please, I don't need anyone. I just don't want to talk anymore."

Don hesitated and looked at the clock. The dominatrix known as the traction nurse was due in two minutes. "Really? You're…all right?"

"Yes." Charlie's voice was even softer, now. It sounded like he was falling asleep. "Thank-you."

Don tapped his fingers on the bed and was about to call for someone anyway when the nurse finally came through the door. She headed for his leg, but he called out to her. "My brother said he didn't feel well. Could you check on him?"

She veered to Charlie, standing between the beds with her back to Don, so he couldn't see what she was doing. Only a few seconds later, though, she turned around, smiling. She headed for Don's leg, again. "He's fine. Temp is normal, all vitals are good. He's just sleeping."

Don wished again that he could get up and see Charlie's face.

For some reason, he was sure his brother was faking it.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Alan was persuaded to go home that evening, but was back before breakfast the next morning. Under his watchful eye, both sons made inroads on the trays of hospital food, although he wasn't pleased with either of them.

By 9:30, nurses had Charlie up and navigating the room on crutches. On the way to the bathroom, he paused at the end of Don's bed, and Don got a good look at him for the first time. The injuries visible to him looked horrible enough — especially the bulky bandage around his upper arm, the one that Don knew he had put there — but the vacant look in Charlie's eyes as he tried unsuccessfully to smile at him, chilled Don to the bone. After just a few minutes of practice in the room, the nurse actually took him into the corridor for a longer walk, and Alan trailed behind, unwilling to believe it was a good idea.

Just five minutes later they were back; Charlie tired, but steady on his crutches; Alan triumphant. Don suspected the walk may have gone on longer, without Alan's input.

Another nurse had started Don's traction while they were gone, and given him another shot, and he soon drifted off, waking in a few hours to the sound of Megan's whisper. "I need to take Charlie's statement, Mr. Eppes."

Alan sounded upset. "You see that the boys are both sleeping. Do you have to do this now?"

"I'm awake," Don and Charlie both said at the same time, and Alan turned from the foot of Don's bed to glare at him.

"Go back to sleep, young man."

Megan winked on the way past, as she and Alan approached the far side of Charlie's bed.

"…has to do it, Dad…", Don heard, and then he heard Alan sigh.

"I know. I suppose I can go to the cafeteria for an early lunch…"

Charlie spoke louder. "No. I'll leave, Dad. Megan and I can go down to the sun room. Lift my leg out of the bed like they showed you, and hand me my crutches."

Alan took a step back. "Charlie. You just got back. It's too soon for another walk."

Don expected an argument and was kind-of surprised when he heard his brother bypass his father altogether. "Megan, you can help me. I'll tell you what to do."

Don heard his father sigh and saw him head for Charlie's bed again. "All-right, Charlie. I know you want to go home tomorrow if you can, so maybe you should be up more. But at least use the wheelchair. We don't know how long this will take."

Don watched and listened with interest as the tableau unfolded. Charlie finally nodded, and Alan went to the far corner of the room and retrieved the chair, brought it to Charlie's bed and lowered the rail. "Do you want me to go with you?", he asked quietly, as he helped Charlie transfer from the bed to the chair.

"No, thank you," Charlie said in an almost disinterested voice, and Don shuddered a little. The polite guy from McDonald's was back.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Megan pushed Charlie's chair into the sun room at the end of the corridor. Only one other patient was there, and she headed for the opposite side of the room, parked Charlie and took a chair facing him. She took out her notebook and told herself that this was just another victim interview.

She took a deep breath and prepared to start her questions, but Charlie beat her to it. "How did you find me?"

Megan was momentarily nonplussed. No-one had told him? She lowered the notebook to her lap. "Well…Larry was a big help. We all kind-of got to the same place at the same time, separately — and then Larry and Alan received the thumb drives you mailed them. Things progressed fairly rapidly after that — and your father is responsible for most of it."

Charlie looked surprised. "My father?"

Megan couldn't help herself. She grinned. "Alan Eppes," she said, "is a force to be reckoned with. He talked Larry into helping him knock out the agent who was protecting them at the safe house." Her grin faded. "He relieved the agent of his weapon, confronted Merrick here at the hospital, in Don's room — your dad busted the bad guy, Charlie. And from the information on the drives, bluffed Merrick into admitting where he was holding you."

Charlie stared at her for a moment. A tiny smile played at the corner of his mouth and he shook his head. "Damn. And to think I just took him on over the whole getting out of bed thing."

Megan laughed, relieved to hear something so…Charlie-like…coming from the shell-shocked man who sat before her. She hated to chase that guy away, but she knew it would happen. She raised and opened the notebook again. "So tell me everything. From when Don first called you in on the case."

Half an hour later, Charlie's voice was taking on that raspy, almost-got-laryngitis quality it got when he was very tired, or very emotional. Megan considered the story he had just told her, and figured he was both. She quietly closed the notebook and placed a hand on his arm, fingertips brushing the bandage around his wrist. She tried to suppress her shiver, imagining what that last 15 minutes had been like for him.

Finally she stood. "I'll take you back, now," she said, but Charlie lifted a hand to stop her.

"No…please…I just want to stay here for a while." The other patient had left, and Charlie was alone in the sun room. "Just park me a little closer to the window, and tell my Dad where I am, okay?"

Megan stood and regarded him. He looked tired…but so much had been taken from him, in those three days he was tortured. Then, he was rescued and brought to a hospital — where doctors and nurses and a well-meaning father took away all his decisions again. So she did it. She parked him at the window, rubbed his shoulder a few times, and finally left, to ask Alan to leave him alone for a while.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie stayed in the sun room through three visits from nurses and two from his father — who, to his credit, didn't even try to talk Charlie into coming back to bed for almost an hour. He stayed in the sun room until Larry found him there, late in the afternoon.

The professor stood next to him silently and looked out the window for almost five minutes. When he finally spoke, it was a question. "Charles — what do you see?"

Charlie sighed a little. "It changes," he admitted. "Sometimes, just buildings and smog. Sometimes, the flame of that damn little cigarette lighter. Sometimes, Amita."

Larry looked down at him. "It's a horrendous tragedy, Charles. All of it."

Charlie didn't answer. Larry squatted next to the chair. "You've been here for almost six hours, Charles. Your brother and father are worried. I know you want to be released tomorrow, but the doctor won't do that if he can't even get you out of the sun room."

Charlie turned his gaze away from the window and looked at the friend he had been willing to die for. He smiled a little. "Megan told me you and Dad assaulted a federal agent."

Larry hung his head. "Oh, dear. Dear. Charles, I have a much clearer understanding of you, now. That man can be an extremely overwhelming force when he wants to be." He used the arm of the wheelchair to pull himself back up. "May I take you back, now? He sent me down here after you, and I'm actually afraid to return without you."

Charlie nodded briefly, and Larry pushed his friend back to his room, where Don and Alan waited anxiously. Just finishing setting up Don's traction, a nurse grabbed Charlie's crutches when she saw him come through the door. "Just stop there," she ordered.

Alan made a noise but she cut him off. "He'll just use the restroom and then use the crutches to get back to bed, Papa Bear. It'll be all right."

Don listened to Alan's muttered reaction and turned his head away until he could control his expression, then gave up and looked back at his father. "Papa Bear," he said quietly. Alan glared at him. "You. You're tied down for two more weeks. I know where to find you. Think about that."

Finally, Charlie was ushered back to bed, his leg propped back on its pillows. It was almost time for dinner, and it turned out to be all he could do to stay awake through a bowl of soup.

Then, for the first time in almost six days, Charlie slept because he was tired, and not because he was unconscious. Exhausted as he was, the unhappy wrinkle never quite left his brow, and as Alan watched him sleep, he tried to will it away.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Charlie was released the next afternoon. Cecile had promised his doctors that she would see him daily, changing dressings on the several small burns and generally overseeing his recovery. Don watched sullenly from the bed as his Dad packed up his brother, unhappily resigned to two more weeks in the hospital. The only thing that made the afternoon bearable was the fact that Cecile had the day off, and was spending the rest of it with him, so Alan could get Charlie settled in at home.

Just before his Dad and Charlie left, three men in black waiter's jackets entered the room, pushing a cart and carrying packages. Cecile stood uncertainly and Don looked at his father, who was smiling. "What did you do?"

Alan looked at Don. "It's a nice dinner for two. Non-hospital fare. These men work for Donna."

Don looked confused. "The caterer? I thought you guys…"

"We're friends," Alan supplied. She's an excellent chef, and she was very pleased to do this for you. I'm sure you'll both enjoy it."

Don watched the men setting up a card table near the bed for Cecile's dinner, saw a bouquet of flowers come out of nowhere and decorate his rolling table. He grinned at a stunned Cecile, who looked at Alan and stammered.

"I…this…we…"

Even Charlie smiled as Don and Alan laughed at Cecile's consternation. Alan crossed a few feet to hug jer warmly, and winked at Don over her shoulder. Then he returned to push Charlie's chair out the door.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

When he came back the next morning, bursting through the door before 10, Don looked behind him expectantly and was sorry to see that Charlie wasn't with him.

Alan recognized the disappointment for what it was, and he tried to smile reassuringly as he approached a chair. Since Charlie's bed had been removed from the room, there were a few more to choose from. Alan picked the one closest to Don, of course. "Good morning, son! How was dinner?"

Don smiled back, knew that he was blushing and reddened even more in embarrassment. "It was great, Dad. The food, the company — thanks for doing that. I'll be here two more weeks, by the way."

Alan laughed. "I'll try to arrange something for every evening Cecile has off and can spend with you, okay? Maybe not a catered meal every time…take-out from Rosario's or something."

Don brightened for a moment and then tried to quell his obvious pleasure. "No, really, Dad, I was just kidding. You don't have to do that."

Alan kept smiling. "Nonsense. How many fathers get to help their 36-year-old sons date? You can come up with some ideas, too, you know — we can get a VCR or DVD player in here, and you two can have a movie night. I'll bring popcorn."

Don's mind began whirling. He wanted to think of something special himself, so Cecile knew it was coming from him and not his father. He shelved those thoughts temporarily and refocused on his missing brother. "Charlie didn't come?"

Alan shrugged. "He didn't feel up to it."

"Is he okay?"

Alan reassured him. "Yes, he's just tired. He knows I'll be here for several hours — probably all day. I think he just doesn't want to try to sit here that long."

Don picked at the bedspread. "Dad…it's great having you here, after being alone so long…but you don't have to spend so much time here. I'm not really sick, I'm just tied up at the moment." Alan laughed, and then Don continued. "Now that Charlie's home, I'll understand if you can't be here as much."

Alan tilted his head slightly. "Charlie starts his physical therapy on Monday morning — five days a week, can you believe that? Only a few minutes at first — it will take us longer to drive there than the actual session. Anyway, by the time I get him home and settled, I probably won't get here until the afternoons once the weekend is over."

"That's fine," Don repeated. "Whatever Charlie needs. Is he alone, or is Larry with him today?"

Alan's look turned a little pensive, and Don felt the familiar gnawing of concern. "He offered. It's Saturday; no classes. But Charlie…Charlie seems a little reluctant to be around him." Alan suddenly sighed. "Let's face it. He's uncomfortable around you and I, too."

Don had a sudden insight. "He's scared. Look what loving us convinced him he should do."

Alan visibly shuddered and closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again and nodded. "That could be it. Megan is actually with him today. She called this morning and asked if that would be all right."

Don was surprised, but he didn't know why. Charlie and the team's profiler had always been friendly. It was both a relief and a concern that she was obviously concerned about Charlie, though. He made a mental note to ask to see the report of her interview with Charlie.

"You know, it's interesting…" Alan's tone indicated that he was thinking as he talked. "Colby called also. He's coming for half a day tomorrow. Morning." He looked at Don. "Think I'll be hearing from David, soon?"

Don smiled, grateful beyond measure to his team. "Pretty sure you can count on that, Dad."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Alan was right.

Once Charlie's therapy started, it was after noon before he could get to the hospital. Charlie was always too tired to come with him, preferring to stay at home and nap during the afternoon. Alan was reluctant to leave him alone for very long, and his visits to Don were already becoming greatly reduced. Finally, Alan threatened to call in Aunt Irene, but at that Charlie had his therapist and his doctor tell him it was all right for him to spend a few hours a day alone. He promised before witnesses not to try and negotiate the stairs on his own, and Alan nervously let him have his way.

On Wednesday, Alan brought Don a DVD player, the movies he had requested, and a huge bag of popcorn. Cecile was working that day, but her shift ended at 7, so Don didn't see any reason to wait for a night at the movies — a night interrupted every 48 minutes by traction, but he'd take what he could get.

Alan watched a hospital maintenance employee hook up the DVD player, and Don watched Alan. He seemed a little…worried. When everything was ready to go, and maintenance had left, Alan continued to pace beyond the bed, not sitting down.

"What's wrong?"

Alan looked at Don, gave him the most false smile he had ever seen, and sat in the chair he was closest to at the moment. "Nothing. I'm sorry. Just a little distracted. Do you feel up to a game of checkers?"

"If I king you first, will you tell me what's wrong?"

Alan raised an eyebrow at his son. "Do I need to remind you I disarmed a federal agent in better shape than you are in at the moment?"

Don smiled. "Please. Don't."

Alan's returning smile felt more genuine, and Don pressed a little.

"Seriously, Dad. I'm just laying around here. I haven't seen Charlie since he left Friday, and I've only been able to catch him awake and talk to him on the phone twice. You come in here looking like that — what am I supposed to think?"

Alan sighed. "He's just not…Charlie. And I don't just mean physically. He's so quiet. So polite. Larry comes to see him, tries to get him interested in work, but Charlie never has anything to add to the discussion. He doesn't try to sneak out to the garage, he doesn't talk about going back to teaching. He doesn't talk at all…really communicate, I mean. He responds quickly and nicely to all questions, but he doesn't volunteer a damn thing. It's as if the light has gone out of him…some core part of him is still locked in that room."

"Does Megan still come to see him?"

"Every evening, since he's been home. Sometimes they go sit out by the koi pond. Maybe they talk out there. But sometimes, I know they don't talk. Last night, she came by and sat on the daybed with him for 45 minutes, and I swear, I didn't hear anything besides 'Hello' and 'Good-bye'."

"Daybed?"

Alan looked momentarily startled. "That's right. I forgot to tell you. Cecile came by before Charlie came home and helped me set up the living room. Colby and David stopped by that morning too, and moved some furniture. You won't recognize the place. The couch isn't really comfortable for Charlie right now, and last night was the first night he made it all the way up the stairs and slept in his own bed. He lives on the daybed when he's downstairs. By the time you come home, he'll be upstairs every night. We'll leave it set up for you, for a few weeks."

Don started to protest. "Dad, I can go home…I'll be in a cast, on crutches by then…"

Alan looked stern. "No. Your apartment is upstairs. Dr. Chamberlain said you should avoid the stairs until your therapy starts, and that's not for three weeks after you get the cast. I want you to come to the house. Besides," he added, grinning wickedly, "you'll hurt Cecile's feelings. She set all this up thinking you would be using it too. She even let me borrow her daybed from her guest room."

Don was furious when he felt himself redden. He waved a hand in a good-natured cease-fire. "Okay, okay. Just until doc says I can take the stairs again. Now get the checkers the hell over here."


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

_She looked at him with confusion and pain in her eyes. "I don't understand. I thought we were friends, again."_

_He tried to reach her, touch her, reassure her, but when he placed a hand on her arm, it went all the way through. He could see his fingers sticking out on the other side, and he looked at them in horror. What had he done to her? He jerked his hand back. "I'm sorry," he said, moving his eyes from his offending hand to her own eyes, now brimming with tears. That realization constricted his heart. He hated it when she cried. "Please. Don't cry, Amita. Did I hurt you?"_

_She looked at him sorrowfully, and began to drift backwards, as if a strong wind had picked her up. "You didn't hurt me, Charlie," she said softly, and he followed after her so that he could hear. He was close enough that he could see the worms start crawling out of her eyes when she repeated herself and then finished her sentence…her accusation. " You didn't hurt me. You killed me."_

_Worms began to fall on the ground then, hundreds of them, thousands. They were covering his feet, crawling into his socks. "No!", he shouted, stamping his feet and backing away from her. "Stop it!" She began to laugh then, and the sound was terrifying, hysterical, it hurt his ears. He clamped his hands over them. "No!", he shouted again._

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie awoke in a cold sweat on the daybed. His shout echoed in the living room, but the pounding of his heart drowned it out. As he had learned to do over the last few days, he waited until the beat slowed, until the gasps of air that he was taking became breaths again.

He was glad once more that Alan had agreed to giving him a few hours a day alone. It was the only time he even tried to sleep. At night, after he let Alan settle him in his room, Charlie waited until he couldn't stand it any more. Then he hoped his father was sleeping and turned on his bedside lamp. He reached between the mattress and box springs, and wrestled out the notebook he was storing there. Then he would grab a pencil off he desk, and work on "P vs NP" until the sun began to rise.

He wasn't really lost in it, this time. He always noticed the lightening sky, for instance, and put the notebook away before Alan, an early riser, came smiling into his room. It was easy. He didn't really care about the problem. It just gave him something to do, during the night. Something he knew he wouldn't accidentally finish.

He was halfway through his fifth day out of the hospital, and his growing exhaustion was slowing everything down. Cecile was concerned about several of the burns, especially the largest one around the bullet graze. For the last couple of days, she had been coming over early in the morning, before her shift, and late at night, after it. She had only agreed to a "date" with Don this evening because she knew Charlie had a doctor's appointment this afternoon.

Remembering the appointment, Charlie tried to focus on the clock across the room. He still couldn't wear a watch, although the stitches should come out of his wrists at the doctor's later. He hadn't means to fall asleep today, because he knew his Dad would be back soon, to take him to the appointment…but he was so tired. So tired.

His knee never ceased its agony. He knew the physical therapist wasn't pushing him very hard, in recognition of his other injuries, but Charlie thought the 15 minutes of exercises every morning would kill him.

He looked at his bandaged wrists again.

No, they wouldn't kill him.

Apparently, dying was too good for him.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

By Friday, a week after Charlie had been released, Don was going stir crazy. The morphine, it turned out, had been good for more than just pain. By rendering him unconscious so much of the time, it had saved him from boredom. The day before, he had begged his father to bring him his laptop. "I'll balance my checkbook. Type out recipes for you. Start a Christmas letter. Something. Anything. Please."

When Alan finally reminded him that his apartment had been ransacked, and told him that it was his laptop Charlie had destroyed, Don was bereft. Alan tried to lighten the moment. "I can't get Charlie to go near a computer. You're begging for one. I'm beginning to think you two scrambled your brains and put them back into the wrong bodies."

Now, strung up like a smoked ham, Don remembered what his father had said, and decided on an experiment. He looked at the clock. 11 a.m. Dad and Charlie were home from his PT by 10:30, but since Charlie's doctor's appointment on Wednesday afternoon had not gone well, Alan still stayed with him until after lunch. Don frowned, thinking about what his father and Cecile had said about the appointment. Charlie was not healing well — no part of him. The doctor had untaped his nose, and then taped it back up again. He had removed the stitches in both wrists, and one had broken back open, so he had stitched it up again. He checked Charlie's burns and scheduled him for a skin graft on his arm the next month, and said he might have to do the same with one of the burns on a foot. Charlie had sported a low-grade fever, and he had continued him on antibiotics, switching to a stronger one. He said that it was obvious Charlie was not getting enough rest, and handed Alan a prescription for a sleeping pill. He strongly encouraged Charlie to seek counseling, and he said the next step would take him back to the hospital if he wasn't careful.

Don picked up the phone beside the bed and dialed Charlie's cell. He was almost surprised when the call didn't go to voice mail.

"Hello?"

God. He sounded so…weary.

"Hey, Buddy."

Silence. Then, "Don. How are you?"

"Bored. Is Dad still there?"

"He's making lunch. Do you want me to call him?"

"No, actually I called to ask you a couple of things."

A wary "What?" eventually came back at Don.

"Dad says you're not working on anything, and I know you've got some cool stuff loaded on your laptop. Can I borrow it? I'm going crazy, here."

"Oh. Oh. Sure. I'll send it over with Dad today." There was some surprise in Charlie's voice, but the total lack of hesitation was disturbing to Don. Charlie's computer meant more to him than his kidneys.

"Um…thanks…"

"Was there something else? You said 'a couple of things'?"

Don let his loneliness show in his voice. "Yeah. I know you haven't been feeling so hot…but will you come and see me tomorrow? It's Saturday — you won't have therapy. I miss you."

Silence again. Finally, "All right." Almost sounding like Charlie again, he added, "I'm sorry."

Damn. Don hadn't meant to make him feel bad. "It's okay. I'm sure PT is exhausting." He tried a joke. "Can't wait to find out, myself."

Charlie chuckled a little.

"That's cute," Don interjected. "Chuck chuckled."

A quiet groan. "Are you back on morphine?"

This time it was Don's turn to laugh.

"Dad's bringing me lunch," Charlie suddenly said. "I'll send the laptop."

"Thanks," Don said again. "See you tomorrow?"

"Okay," Charlie answered. "Good…" He suddenly interrupted himself. "Don?"

"Yeah, Buddy?"

Don could hear Charlie breathing. "Just…take care, okay?"

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie did come to see Don the next day, but not with Alan. On Saturday, he arrived with Larry, and on Sunday he came with Megan. He stayed an hour each day, but let the others in the room monopolize the visit. He spoke when spoken to, but otherwise sat in quiet observation. Don wished he could get some time alone with him, but no-one was picking up on his hints. When he had first seen Charlie on Saturday, he was shocked at his appearance. Charlie seemed gaunt, listless, exhausted. Never exactly bulky, he looked like he'd lost 10 pounds in the week since Don had seen him.

When Charlie and Larry left, Don looked at Alan as the door swung shut behind them, but Alan just shrugged and looked away. "Megan says to give him some time." Alan sighed, rubbed a hand on his cheek and then dropped it to his lap. "I'm not sure how much more time I can give him. I'm worried. His…emotional state, it's affecting his physical recovery. He has another appointment Monday afternoon."

The two brief weekend visits made Don uneasy, and he would have obsessed even more about it, tied to his bed, if Assistant Director Bill Walker hadn't paid him a visit on Monday, giving him something else to think about.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Don was drumming his fingers on the bedspread again, trying to use his head, and not resort to the laptop's calculator. He was trying to channel Charlie. He was attempting to figure out a number of things. It was 2 p.m. Monday, and he had every intention of being out of here by 2 p.m. Friday. How many traction sessions were left? 96. That didn't look good, unless you compared it with the amount he had already endured. 408? He'd have to check that one. How long had it been since he'd had any Demerol? 22 hours. He'd have to start bucking up more. He definitely wanted to be free and clear of that by Friday. He'd talk to the doctor in the morning about switching him to an oral pain med. How many times had he asked Megan to bring him a copy of Charlie's statement? Four — the same number of times she had come to see him, and "forgotten". Crap. It was always the low numbers — the ones you didn't watch so carefully — that tripped you up. Three times she had "forgotten". The last time she had told him it was basically none of his business, since he wasn't working the case. He had no right to infringe on a victim's right to privacy — even if that victim was his brother. What was the algebraic equation for determining the force with which he had almost slapped her? Maybe he shouldn't figure that one out. It was not a moment of which he was particularly proud.

He heard the door opening and looked up, surprised. His Dad would not be by until much later — he was taking Charlie to the doctor, and it wasn't time for traction yet. Don's surprise doubled when he recognized Assistant Director Walker. Bill Walker had only been A.D. of the L.A. office for a few months — came from Vegas — and the two had not had much of a chance to work together. If he was dropping by for a visit in the middle of the day, Don figured he must be trying for the hands-on approach with his agents. Just took him a little while to get his hands on. "Assistant Director. How are you?"

Walker smiled as he approached the bed. "I believe that's my line, Agent Eppes. Your father has been keeping me informed, and he says you're doing well."

Don grimaced. "If by 'well' you mean that I've been tied down in one place for over two weeks and haven't hurt anyone over it, yeah, I guess so."

The A.D. laughed a little and offered Don the paperback novel he was holding. "It's not new — I like to recycle. It's the latest John Grisham. I enjoyed it…I don't know if you read much, but I figured you can't be doing much else."

Don accepted the book. "Thanks — and you're right. Don't take the time to read much, usually…but I seem to have nothing but time, these days. I appreciate it. I've sunk so low I'm playing computer games." The A.D. was still standing and Don indicated a chair. "Would you like to sit down?"

Walker shook his head but came closer to the bed. "I can't stay. Office is pretty… Well. You can imagine." Don nodded. Walker cleared his throat. "Actually, that's why I'm here. As of today, I'm officially the Director of the L.A. office. It was announced on an interim basis, of course, but the powers assure me the position is mine."

Don was happy to hear that things hadn't reached a complete standstill in the wake of Merrick's deception, and from what he had seen so far, Walker could handle the job. "Congratulations. I'm sure you'll be quite successful — although I don't envy you having to deal with agent morale, after what Merrick did."

"Well, that's really more in the job description of the Assistant Director."

Don smiled. "Poor bastard."

Walker smiled back. "Quite. My hope is that 'poor bastard' will be you."

Don dropped the John Grisham novel. "Excuse me?"

"I've reviewed you work, both here and in the Albuquerque office, Agent Eppes. Your team speaks highly of you. In fact, no agent does not speak well of you; you have the respect of the entire office. That will go a long way toward making you an effective A.D."

Don couldn't seem to find anything to say.

"I understand this is something you'll need to consider seriously," continued Walker. "The position is yours if you want it. Take the rest of your recovery to think about it. From what I understand, once you're released, it will be several more weeks before you begin physical therapy?"

"Three," confirmed Don weakly.

"And while hopes are high and everyone maintains optimism, there's no way to tell at this point whether or not you can return to the field."

Don swallowed.

"I certainly join my hope with yours, if it is your desire to return to field work. I'm just asking that you take the next — month, shall we say? — to consider this alternative. I believe we would be an effective team, Agent Eppes, and that we could bring the L.A. office triumphantly through this challenge."

He offered his hand to Don then, and Don shook it with feeling. Regardless of his decision about accepting the A.D. position, he was learning a great appreciation for this man, and looked forward to working for him. "Thank you, A…Director. Director Walker. I'm…momentarily overwhelmed. I appreciate your confidence."

The new Director released his hand and smiled. "Enjoy Mr. Grisham, Agent Eppes. In those off moments you have when you can think of nothing else to do. I'll be in touch frequently."

Walker pivoted and walked toward the door, opening it just as the traction nurse arrived to hook Don up again. Strange thing, though. This time, he barely even felt it.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

His leg ached mightily by 3 o'clock, though. Don tried to convince himself that it was phychosomatic, because A.D. Walker had talked about therapy, and field work — but by 4, he reconsidered his stance on Demerol. Maybe he could have just one more shot…before he talked to the doctor in the morning. His nurse was happy to comply — he was a much easier patient when he was unconscious — and Don blissfully slept through the next two traction treatments. It was the 6:15 unhooking that brought him up through the haze enough to focus on his father sitting unhappily in the chair between the beds, staring at the floor.

Don watched him for almost a full minute before it hit him.

The chair between the beds? Why was there another bed in here again?

Don couldn't see around his father's head, but he recognized the knee brace outside the covers. He tried to hit the control to raise the head of his own bed, but didn't have that much fine motor control in his hands, yet. Stupid Demerol. At least all his IV lines were gone, so he could put his hand through the rail and poke his father in the shoulder. Alan looked up at him, startled. "Are you all right? You were sleeping so soundly you missed dinner."

That wasn't all, Don thought. If dinner was over, he had slept through two tractions and the reconfiguration of his room — his own bed had been moved and he hadn't awakened. That qualified as sound sleep, Don guessed. "Upid mmmoral," he muttered. Alan smiled gently and stood up, offering Don a drink from the cup on his rolling table. It helped loosen his tongue from the roof of his mouth, and Don drank gratefully.

When his father put the cup back, Don managed to lift a hand and almost point a finger toward the other bed. "Charlie?"

Alan glanced at the other bed, sighed and sat down again, nodding. "Didn't go as well as it did last week, with the doctor."

Don ruminated. Alan was either the eternal optimist or the king of the understatement, Don had never been able to quite decide which. "What?" His words were understandable now, but two in a row was still a challenge.

"Let me see if I can remember it all." Alan ticked the list off on his fingers. "Dehydrated. Persistent secondary infection. Not enough nutrition to keep his ulcer happy. Exhaustion. Complications to his knee surgery." He looked back at Don. "On the bright side, the tape on his nose has been downsized."

Alan looked over at Charlie again and then back at the floor. "The doctor saw him at 3, and by 5 he was admitted for at least 24 hours of IV nutrition and antibiotic treatment. PT is off, for a while." He looked back at Don. "I think that's about it."

"Sedated?"

"Oh, yeah. Turns out Charlie hasn't been sleeping at night. This morning I was changing his bed, and found a notebook crammed with equations hidden between the mattress and the box springs. At first I was glad he was working on something. But then Larry came over for lunch, and I asked him to come upstairs and help me with something. I showed it to him. He said it was that problem. The unsolvable one, that Charlie did before. You know."

Don closed his eyes for a second. Yeah, he knew. P vs NP.

"Anyway. Revelation didn't sit too well with me, and I nailed him on it…" Alan glanced at Don's leg and grimaced. "Sorry. Anyway. I confonted him in the doctor's office so he wouldn't lie to me. He never sleeps at night. Even the prescription the doctor gave him last week doesn't phase him. He hasn't wanted me to hear the screaming nightmares he has every afternoon on the daybed, while I've been here."

Don opened his eyes again. "Sleeps only while you're here?" He was proud of himself. Five consecutive words. Soon he would be able to ask his Dad to order pizza.

Or maybe not. Alan looked angry. He was nodding. "That means, sick and wounded, he's been averaging three or four hours of sleep a day." Alan looked at him full-on, and Don could see that he was angry. "I'll tell you, Don, I love that boy, and I feel like someone is stealing him. I want to fight for him again, hold someone at gunpoint again, but who do I fight? Who do I fight, Don?"

Alan's anger and frustration spilled over and invaded Don's space, and he felt himself feeling it, too. He wanted to come up with an answer for Alan, he wanted to assure him that Charlie would be all right.

He just didn't know if it was true.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Charlie slept on as Don and Alan shared a sandwich from the cafeteria. Around 8, when Cecile showed up after her shift, they were able to talk Alan into going home. Don was still overwhelmed by the visit from Walker, the Demoral and the black cloud that followed Charlie, and fell asleep again himself while Cecile was still there.

Several times during the night he half-woke during traction, but it either had been going on long enough now that he was getting used to it, or it was beginning to hurt less. Either way, the lingering cloud of medication kept him from fully awakening until the 4:15 a.m. disconnection. He had slept a lot since yesterday, so while the nurse did her work he raised the head of the bed a little and picked up the Grisham novel, telling her to leave the light over his bed on when she left, assuring her that it provided him enough light to read.

He held the book unopened while she walked to Charlie's bed. He could hear her talking, so he figured Charlie was awake. He laid the book back down and turned the light off again, and waited for her to leave.

He only had 48 minutes. Maybe less, depending on what they had given his brother.

Don took a breath. "Charlie?"

"Mmmm."

He sounded pretty sleepy. Probably on his way out, again. Don didn't care. He had been thinking about this conversation all night, in his dreams, and he was damn well going to say it before it drove him to distraction. He just couldn't look at him while he did it, so Don stared at the ceiling.

"Charlie…remember the family honesty policy? We all made a deal, back when you had surgery on your ulcer perforation."

"Mmmm."

"Well, you haven't been living up to your end, Chuck."

No response.

Don continued nervously. "I'm sure you don't remember what you told us, Dad and me, after your knee surgery last week. You were under the influence." He raised his voice a little. "Are you listening to me?"

The tiniest whisper. "Yes."

"Well, Dad and I made a mistake then, too. After you told us…what you did, when you were being held, and why you did it…Charlie, we didn't talk about that. To each other, or to you. We should have. Regardless of how…horrible it was, to think about, despite how terrible it made us feel to know that Merrick brought you to that place. We…well, I can't really speak for Dad. But I didn't want you to have to think about it again. I thought we could ignore it away, but we can't, can we Charlie? The scars are too fresh — and I don't just mean the physical ones, on your wrists."

He waited a second, but wasn't surprised when Charlie didn't respond.

"Let me tell you now what I think, Charlie. I think you couldn't let Merrick win because it would be like killing all his victims all over again. I think you were broken down and confused and terrified, and felt helpless to prevent what happened to Amita from happening to us. I think you believed that your own death was the only way to save us. I believe you love us enough to do that. In fact, I doubt that you even had to talk yourself into it. I believe that you thought it was you — or us — and that was no contest for you." Don paused, then said his next words firmly, and slowly. "I believe that you would die for me, Charlie."

Don stopped again, and the silence in the room was deafening. He took another breath.

"And you know what else? I'm a bastard, Buddy — because even that is just not enough for me. You know what I want? I don't want you to find the strength inside you that it takes to die for me. I want you… hell, I need you, to find the strength inside that it takes to live for me. Don't let him win, Charlie. Don't let him take you away from me. From Dad."

Suddenly as exhausted as if he hadn't slept in days, Don abruptly stopped speaking and turned his head to look toward Charlie's bed. His brother held a hand to his face, IV lines dangling, and he shook silently. As Don watched, a keening sound began to come from him, and the silent sobbing began to be interrupted by huge, gut-wrenching gasps. Don started to lean forward to figure out how to get out of this thing. They got him up a few times a day for the necessities, he was going home in a few days…and his brother needed him. He held his leg in one hand while he unhooked the hammock, so his leg didn't crash into the bed. He lowered it gently and then leaned over to let the rail down. He wouldn't even have to hop, he could lower himself into the chair between the beds.

Don threw his pillows to the floor, so he could rest his leg on them, and then carefully let himself drop to the chair.

Things were going well. That hadn't really hurt. Too much.

He lowered the rail on Charlie's bed, and reached to touch his brother's arm. Feeling it, Charlie turned toward him, and Don decided to ignore Charlie's knee for the moment and moved his arm all the way around Charlie's neck, pulled him over on his side, further toward him. Don leaned as far into the bed as he could, and added his other arm to the equation, fully encircling Charlie's shaking shoulders. Charlie leaned his head into Don and cried.

Don held on, silent, while Charlie cried harder than he had when he was five, and discovered their pet goldfish dead; harder than he had when he was seven, and broke his arm falling out of the Oak tree; harder than he had when he was 10, and a 15-year-old Don had ditched him at the mall for his friends. Charlie cried as if he would never stop, and Don held on as if he would never let go.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

Coming in to surprise him, and hook up Don's 5 o'clock traction before starting a 12-hour shift, Cecile nearly passed out in the doorway when she saw him in the chair, and heard Charlie's hysterical crying. She grabbed the floor nurse, who was passing in the hall at that moment, and the two of them entered and quickly had Don back in bed, against his will.

The floor nurse ran to call Charlie's doctor and get another sedative ordered, and while she waited for the woman to come back, Cecile picked the pillows up off the floor, and slammed them, one at a time, onto Don's bed. She was livid. She. Was. Livid. She pulled a curtain that effectively separated the beds — the room had originally been designed for two — and then disappeared behind it with Charlie..

Presently, the floor nurse was back with a syringe, and she disappeared behind the curtain as well. Don could hear murmuring, and Charlie's sobs gentling, and finally, nothing. The floor nurse exited the curtain first, glared at Don and walked from the room without a word.

He knew he was in trouble when, two minutes later, Cecile did the same thing.

He was considering what to do about it — and marveling that they had totally missed his traction in the commotion — when the door slammed open and she burst back in, striding to his bed in quick, determined steps.

She spoke in a low voice, trying not to disturb Charlie behind the curtain, but there was still no mistaking her anger. "What did you think you were doing? Taking that kind of risk! This close to it all being over!"

He looked at her, and wished, not for the first time, that Charlie would teach him that wounded puppy thing he did so well. "You saw him."

She crossed her arms, back ramrod straight. "That is what the damn call light is for."

"Baby…he's my brother. You don't press a call light when your brother falls apart. You help hold him together."

One foot tapped on the linoleum floor. Ten times.

"Did you just call me 'baby'?"

He chanced a grin. "Yes?"

She looked at the curtain around Charlie's bed, and back at Don. "So. Getting involved with you means understanding this…bond…you have with Charlie."

He shrugged. "I guess. Look how you feel about Andrew."

She smiled, tightly. Don knew how terribly she missed Andrew, since he had transferred to the San Diego PD a few months before. "That's nor fair."

Don looked at her seriously. "No. It's not. The way we feel about our brothers is not fair. I think it's love."

She dropped her arms from their crossed position, but placed her hands on her hips in an attitude of frustration before she continued. "But can you do me a favor?"

He didn't have the puppy look, so he tried the name, again. "What, baby?"

"Find a way to be close without being idiots."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

By the time Alan arrived around 9, Cecile was working her own rooms and the floor nurse Don had set off was gone, replaced by the day shift. He felt fairly safe, when his Dad asked, upon seeing the curtain, in editing the story.

"We…had a talk, and he got pretty upset. They gave him another shot, around 5 this morning. He'll probably be out for a while."

Alan frowned, looking at Don. Then he moved to push the curtain back and stood over Charlie's bed, brushed the curls from his forehead. "Well…sleep will help everything physical…" He sat in the chair and looked at Don. "What kind of talk got him that upset?"

Don hedged. "You remember, Dad. Family honesty policy."

Alan raised an eyebrow. "He talked to you about what happened?"

Don fiddled with the Grisham novel. "Not…exactly. But he let himself feel it, let me com…let me talk to him, a little."

Alan considered. He looked back at Charlie. It had been several hours, and the nurses had washed his face, but his practiced parent's eye could see the telltale signs. "Let himself feel it…he cried…"

"A lot. Letting all of that out, finally, he's got to feel better, right?"

Alan looked back at Don. "I hope so, son. But I doubt that one good cry is going to do it."

Don thumbed the Grisham novel again, and Alan finally noticed it. "Someone brought that to you? We read that last month in my book club. You'll like it."

Don looked at the cover. "A.D. Walker stopped by yesterday."

"Really. That was considerate."

Don cleared his throat. "Yeah. Actually…actually, it's Director Walker, now. He got Merrick's job."

"Ah." Alan watched Don's face carefully. "How do you think he'll do?"

Don didn't hesitate. "Well. I think he'll do well." He looked away from the book to meet his father's eyes. "He…offered me a promotion. Assistant Director of the L.A. office."

Alan's eyes grew wide. "Donnie! That's wonderful! Congratulations!"

"I didn't accept, Dad." At Alan's crestfallen look, Don hurried on. "I mean, I didn't say 'no', either. He gave me a month to decide."

Alan chose his words carefully. "Whatever you decide, Donnie, it's a real compliment; an affirmation of your skills."

Don exhaled a tiny snort. "I think it's more of a hope for some I haven't tapped, yet. My skills are in investigation, field work, interrogation. I would miss that. Maybe too much."

"Doesn't the A.D. oversee all active cases, and step in when it's necessary?"

Don acquiesced, looking again at the novel. "Yes."

Alan reached out and rubbed Don's shoulder, "I'm not going to tell you what I think, Don, because it doesn't matter. This is your life, your career — both will go on long after I'm gone, I hope. I'll be proud of you no matter what you decide. I hope you know that."

Don smiled. "I do. And I know what you think, too. A.D. would be safer than field work."

Alan dropped his hand from Don's shoulder and started to open the crossword book he was holding in his lap. "That's your assumption, Donnie. I want you to be happy as much as I want you to be safe. Think about it seriously — and then make the decision that's right for you."

Don was still smiling as he finally cracked the novel open.

He _would_ think about it.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

When Charlie woke up, Alan was nowhere to be seen and he could hear Don snoring. So he pushed the call button and asked if he could get up. Within a few minutes, a floor nurse arrived, checked his vitals, and pushed the IV stand for him while he crutched into the bathroom. After he had taken care of business, washed up a little and brushed his teeth, he asked to go the sun room. He still seemed pretty steady on the crutches, so the nurse agreed. The two progressed slowly to the sun room, where she settled him into a chair near the window and left him to sit for a while.

It turned out to be a short while. Alan found him there 15 minutes later. He plopped down in a chair beside Charlie and apologized when his son seems to start awake, as if he had been dozing again. "I'm sorry," Alan said, reaching into a paper bag and removing a wrapped sandwich. "Were you sleeping? The nurse said she just brought you down here." He unwrapped the sandwich and offered half of it to Charlie. "Turkey, pickle, mayo."

Charlie accepted the food and stared at it. "Thanks. It's the warm sun, through the window. Makes me sleepy." He took a bite and Alan smiled.

"Does the same thing to me," he said, reached into the bag again and this time withdrew a bottle of water. He uncapped it and passed it to Charlie. Alan took a bite from his own half of the sandwich while he watched his son drink.

The two ate side-by-side, sharing the bottle of water, for another 10 minutes. When Alan had finished, he spoke. "I understand you had a meltdown."

Charlie grinned a little. "Maybe a little."

"Feel better?"

Charlie repeated himself. "Maybe a little."

Alan nodded, and waited a few more minutes for Charlie to finish the remaining few bites of the sandwich. Once it became apparent that he wasn't going to, Alan relieved him of it and dropped it back in the bag. He wasn't going to give him a hard time over two — maybe three — bites. He'd just get another sandwich later.

Charlie drained the bottle of water and handed it back to Alan. He sighed a little, looking out the window. "Don says I…told you what happened. What I did."

Alan frowned. "He shouldn't have."

Charlie shook his head and spoke matter-of-factly. "No, no, he was right. We can't pretend if didn't happen. Any of it."

Alan didn't answer.

"I…" Charlie kept his gaze on the window, but Alan got the feeling he wasn't really seeing it. "I just can't believe she's gone."

Alan almost didn't answer again. He knew that feeling well. Too well. He finally spoke softly. "I've never said how sorry I am about that, Charlie. But I am. I truly am."

Charlie looked at his father, then. "I e-mailed her, that morning. I invited her to come and stay at the house Thanksgiving weekend. That's one reason I don't want to use my computer. I'm afraid she answered me, and the e-mail is waiting in my in-box."

"That would be difficult. I can see that."

A few seconds of silence passed, and then Charlie spoke again. "I feel bad."

Alan draped an arm over Charlie's thin shoulders, gave a squeeze. "I can see that too, son." He waited a moment. "You won't feel bad forever."

Charlie leaned his head against Alan. "Promise?"

Alan squeezed again. "I promise, Little One."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Early that evening, Megan came by and managed to engage all three Eppes men in "Wheel of Fortune" on television, and resoundingly beat them all. When Charlie started yawning soon after the game, she got up to leave, but he motioned her closer to his bed.

"Can I get you something, Charlie?"

He blinked a couple of times before saying it. "Megan…I think…could you give me some names of counselors, like you offered last week? I think I'm ready, now." Standing between the beds, Megan blocked Charlie's view of Alan and Don, and they exchanged a glance. God Bless Megan.

She smiled at Charlie. "Of course. I'll write a list up tomorrow. You have another day in here, right?" Charlie nodded unhappily. The doctor had been by around 5 and ordered the IV continued for another 24 hours. He probably wouldn't go home until Thursday morning, now — the day before Don.

"Let me make some calls, tomorrow. Find out for sure who has an opening right now. You concentrate on getting home…and we'll rendezvous at your house — Thursday evening."

Charlie looked up at her gratefully, hoping his small "Thanks, Megan" was somehow enough. He yawned again.

Megan reached out and rubbed his arm for a moment. "Get some sleep." She turned toward Don. "Try to lighten up on the snoring, tonight. Charlie's tired."

"I do not snore."

"Right. And David, Colby and I do not draw straws to see who gets stuck with you on an all-night stake-out."

The good-natured ribbing was interrupted by a snore.

"Stop that. You're doing that on purpose."

Don held up his hands. "It's not me!"

They all turned their heads to look at Charlie — just as he snored again.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Go back and re-read Ch. 22, it has been re-submitted. I made a horrible mistake and forgot all about Andrew, Cecile's brother from Part I. Sorry...**

**Chapter 23**

Don was finished with the Grisham novel, already. He'd never read a book in one day before in his life. At least everybody was right — he had enjoyed it. He would probably re-read the good parts.

When he reached to take it off the rolling table, his hand brushed Charlie's laptop. He had almost forgotten it was there. Don's bed was raised enough so that he could see Charlie in the other bed when he turned his head, and he could see that his brother was awake. "Hey, Charlie."

Charlie turned his head a little. "Yeah."

"Listen, I've got this book, now. Do you want your laptop back?"

"No," said Charlie, quickly. "No. You keep it."

Don looked from his brother to the computer and back again. "You know, Charlie…a gun in the wrong hands can do terrible damage. But it's really a beautiful thing, a wondrous working of metal parts — that in the right hands, is powerful but safe. I enjoy a good Saturday morning on the range, now and then."

Charlie looked a little confused. "What does that have to do with anything? You want to shoot my computer?"

Don smiled a little. Perhaps he was being too obtuse. "I'm just saying. The computer didn't jump up and attack you."

Charlie blinked at him. "Oh." His eyes strayed to the laptop. "I know that. That's not…entirely…the problem."

It wasn't? Maybe Don had assumed too much. "So?"

Charlie turned his head again, so he could look at the ceiling. "It's my e-mail. I'm afraid of my e-mail."

Don started to laugh. "Well, it has been a while since you've checked it. There could be hundreds of advertisements for Viagra alone."

Charlie actually turned away from Don, toward the wall, dragging his braced leg unceremoniously off its pillows. Don stopped laughing. "Hey, hey, don't hurt yourself. I'm sorry. What did I do?"

Charlie didn't answer, and Don could see the tension in his back. If his leg hadn't been in a brace, Charlie would probably be in a fetal position by now. Don's voice was apprehensive, unsure. "Is there something I can do? Check your e-mail for you, maybe?"

Charlie's voice, aimed at the wall, was a mumble. "You would do that?"

Relieved, Don reached to open the laptop. "Of course. You use Safari, right? I can navigate that well enough to create some folders and save the stuff I think looks important, and I'll throw away the Viagra ads…" He watched the computer boot up. "You can help me."

Charlie was still aimed at the wall, and sounded reluctant. "I'm not sure we can do that, here."

Don encouraged him. "Sure we can. We're state-of-the-art, Bro. Larry hooked me up with this wireless modem thing."

Charlie rolled back onto his back, raised his own bed and leaned over to reposition his leg. Finally he looked at Don. "All right. Just…Just…Please be careful."

Be careful? It was e-mail, not an armed felon. Don just nodded and started negotiating his way to Safari.

It had been a while since Charlie had checked this. Unbelieveable. Don was momentarily overwhelmed, and sat for a minute. "Well," he said, more to himself than to Charlie. "Start with the obvious."

There really were a dozen advertisements for Viagra. He trashed those, and a few for FREE! plasma TVs and golf bags. He noted several with Cal Sci suffixes, and he created a folder for them. "About 15 here from people at Cal Sci," he said. "I'll move those into a holding cell." Charlie snickered and Don looked at him. "Sorry. A file, then." He looked back at the computer. Once he had moved all of those, things were starting to look more reasonable. He shifted a little in the bed. "That's all I can figure out without opening them," he finally said. "Still 43 left."

Charlie considered. "Any from you?"

Don felt like an idiot when he found two. "Oh. Yeah. Never mind those, now. I'll trash 'em." He looked more carefully at the suffixes then, and his eyes lit on one from Dad — and two from Harvard. Crap. Two from Amita. _That's_ what Charlie was afraid of.

Don had been lying in this bed for way too long. That light should have gone on a long time ago.

"Um…there's one from Dad, here."

"You can read that."

Don did, and chuckled a little. "Can you stop at the store for bread on the way home? Three weeks ago?"

While he had Charlie laughing, Don created a folder for the two Harvard e-mails and moved them. "I moved…some others. You'll be able to find them, later. I was careful." He repeated Charlie's word, hoping his brother would catch his meaning. "We're down to 38."

He heard Charlie sigh. "I'll be able to find them."

"Yes," Don confirmed.

"Okay." Charlie sounded relieved and disappointed at the same time. "Okay," he repeated. "Just start at the top, and read them to me."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Alan had spent the morning readying the house for two invalids. On crutches. He knew Don wasn't really sick, he was actually porking up a bit, lying around all day and eating whatever he wanted. Still, there was Charlie's ulcer to consider, and one could never have too much gelatin or soup prepared in a situation like this.

He spent the afternoon doing some errands for Don. He took himself to an early, congratulatory dinner, savoring the last peaceful, private moment he would have for a few days. He finally arrived at the hospital around 6:30, as if he were any other visitor. When he rounded the corner to access the boys' room, he saw Charlie crutching toward the room from the other direction — probably in the sun room, again — and Larry was pushing an IV pole behind him.

Alan was glad he had stopped for a little fortification. If Charlie's doctor still hadn't discontinued the IV, he doubted that his son would be in a good mood.

He waited for them at the door, smiling and holding it open for them. "Gentlemen."

Charlie started through the door, head down, concentrating on where he planted his crutches. "Dad. Where ya been all day? Don's been driving me crazy."

"I have not!" Alan heard a protest from the bed. "He left me here alone all afternoon! I might as well not even have a roomie."

Charlie stopped for a moment and considered a chair, then started up again and headed for his bed. Larry continued to follow, a silent sentinel. "Two hours. I was gone for two hours, and I only left because you were snoring."

Alan followed the parade into the room just in time to see a pillow land dangerously close to Charlie, causing his son to wobble a bit.

"I do not snore. I may occasionally snort, but that's an entirely different matter."

Charlie started to detour around the road block.

"And give me back my pillow."

Alan picked the pillow up off the floor and walked to Don's bed, watching Larry help Charlie settle on his own out of the corner of his eye, ready to lend a hand if needed. He winked quickly at Don, who beamed happily back. "Don't throw things at your brother while he's on crutches. I know you have the fine arm of a former ball player, but Charlie's reaction time is off." He tossed the pillow back at Don.

Don caught it and looked over at Charlie, grinned broadly. "I hope you heard that. Dad said I can throw things at you — just not while you're on crutches."

Alan rolled his eyes and looked to Larry for help.

Larry held up his hands in surrender and backed subtly toward the door. "I'm afraid this is your battlefield now, Alan. They've been like this since I arrived. I thank the cosmos that I have a seminar to teach this evening." Still, he flashed Alan a relieved grin before he left.

Alan took his appointed chair between the beds. Don was channel surfing, so he looked at Charlie, who had his eyes closed. Still pale. Alan was glad he had made that extra pot of chicken soup. "Will the doctor still let you leave in the morning? I see the IV is still in."

Charlie didn't open his eyes, and his voice slurred a little as he let fatigue overtake him. "I toll im…he takes this out before 10 tommmorroww…" He was interrupted by a yawn. "Er I rip it out myself."

Alan turned his attention back to Don. "Did he eat dinner?"

Don couldn't find anything on the television and started around again. "Huh?", he said, distracted. At Alan's sigh he stopped and focused his attention for a second. He looked at Charlie, asleep, and a soft smile played across his mouth. "Oh. Yeah. Larry brought him something and they ate in the sun room. He really hates the soup and gelatin they try to talk him into here." He looked at his Dad. "He's okay."

"I'm sorry I couldn't be here today. I worry…"

Don laughed softly and ruffled his father's hair. "I know Dad. We all know. You carry the patent, don't you?" Alan tried to look affronted and smoothed his hair down. Don started surfing, again. "Don't worry so much," he said. "When you're not here, Dad, Charlie and I— we can take care of each other."

Alan smiled.

That was all he had ever wanted.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

Charlie almost did rip out his own IV the next morning, but between Don and Alan, they kept him from going over the edge while he waited for the doctor, who finally showed up at 10:30 and released him, with strict aftercare instructions. He wouldn't resume physical therapy until after the Thanksgiving holiday, which, Alan was startled to realize, was only a week away. Between Thanksgiving and Hannukkah, he was scheduled for the skin graft to his upper arm — it was important that he rebuild some strength before then. The doctor would not entertain a discussion about work until after Charlie had recovered from that operation — but most of that was volunteered information. Alan noticed that Charlie still didn't ask for many details, himself.

It was almost an hour after that before the floor nurse had time to disconnect Charlie and help him get ready to go, in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. Charlie and Don kept sending Alan to the car with all that had accumulated in the room in the last three weeks. "I'm coming home tomorrow," Don reminded him. "Might as well take part of this stuff today!" He gave his father a look. "And remind that nurse I want this bed cleared out of here as soon as Charlie is gone."

Charlie looked a little hurt at that, so Don tried to make it up to him. "It's just that it'll make me lonely, Buddy. I'll keep waiting for you to come back from the sun room."

"Right," said Charlie. "Absolutely."

Don grinned. "Seriously, Chuck, I asked for you to be here. And now you're leaving me. Again. No Chuck, no bed. Is that so unreasonable?"

Charlie looked at Don.

"Don't call me Chuck."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

A tiny star shone its light over Don.

This day, his last in the hospital, was also Cecile's day off.

Alan was free to spend the entire afternoon settling Charlie — and three weeks' worth of hospital gifts — at home. Cecile arrived at the hospital around 2 to spend the rest of the day with Don. She sat in the chair nearest the bed, and tried to teach him how to knit. When she became frightened about his frustration level and what he might do with the knitting needle, they switched to 5-card draw poker. She went to the cafeteria, came back, and they shared a mid-afternoon ice cream snack. They celebrated Don's imminent homegoing with pizza around 5:30. At 7, Megan appeared in the doorway, rolling some luggage behind her. She waved at Don and asked Cecile to help her in the bathroom.

Cecile thought that was a little odd. Megan didn't even come all the way into the room. She looked at Don, and he shrugged, looked away quickly.

Suspicious, Cecile joined Megan, who shut the door behind them and opened her luggage. Out came a make-up kit, which she put on the counter. Then, some hair supplies and a dryer joined it. Next, she shook out a slinky black dress and hung it on the hook on the door. A pair of silver, strappy heels followed. Megan brought out a pair of large fluffy towels, a disposable razor and some body gel. She looked at Cecile.

Cecile looked back.

"I won't look," Megan finally said. "I'll just sit here on the floor and wait for awhile." She reached into the luggage one last time and brought out a novel. "I'm prepared. After your shower, I'll help you with hair, and make-up, if you want." Megan reached for the switch on the wall. "We'd better turn the fan on, so the mirror doesn't fog up."

Cecile found her voice. "What is this?"

Megan smiled. "All Don's idea. Right down to the interrogation of your fellow nurses, to find out what sizes you wore. Had a lot of people asking to borrow things in the last week?"

Cecile shook her head, overwhelmed, and fingered the dress. "He…bought me this?"

Megan nodded. "Technically. Actually, I picked it out, since he's — indisposed, at the moment. I hope it's okay."

Cecile thought she might cry. "It's…beautiful. You people are so…good to each other…"

Megan pointed to the shower stall. "Better hurry. You ain't seen nothing, yet."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Forty-five minutes later, Megan stepped back and admired her handiwork.

Cecile's hair was just long enough for an upsweep — she kept it that way so it could be easily pulled back into a pony tail for work. Megan was loaning her the dangling diamond earrings she had received for Christmas last year. The dress was a halter, and Megan had lightly dusted Cecile's bare shoulders with a glitter powder. They had gone all-out with make-up — much more than either woman usually wore, but Megan insisted that this was a special occasion.

"Oh! I almost forgot!" Megan reached into the luggage again and came out with a half-full bottle of Vanilla Fields. "I hope this is okay."

Cecile regarded the bottle. "Is that mine? I actually own some of that — I just don't get much of a chance to wear it. We try to keep the hospital scent-free — for obvious reasons."

Megan smiled. "Actually, it's mine. Great minds, and all that."

Cecile took the bottle and sprayed on a light scent. She looked in the mirror again. She felt as if she were going to the prom. She hadn't figured out what was going on — they'd already had pizza for dinner… She looked nervously at Megan. "What now?"

Megan looked at her watch. "We wait. It shouldn't be long."

"I hope not. It's hot in here. All this hard work could melt off my face."

Megan smiled. She had Cecile turn around for her one last time for a final check, and then turned off all the lights. Cecile could hear her crack the door open. Not much light came in from the hospital room proper, either — but the rush of air was a tremendous relief. Cecile waited.

And waited.

Shifted on the unfamiliar heels, and waited some more.

Later, she would say she waited longer than it took to get ready, but everyone insisted she was crazy. Given the dream she had suddenly found herself living, she had to agree that it was a distinct possibility.

Finally, certain she was mistaken, she heard the faint strains of a violin. It sounded like Brahms. She started when Megan grabbed her wrist in the darkness. "That's our cue," the agent said, and Cecile felt Megan sidle around behind her and place both hands on her bare shoulders. Megan spoke into her ear. "Go ahead — walk on out."

Now that it was time, Cecile almost didn't want to do it. She took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

The room was dimly light with the glow of candles. She could see that there were dozens, on every available surface; candles of every description. She shuddered to think what the DNS would say about fire safety if she could see this. When her eyes grew more accustomed to the light, she saw the source of the music — a lone violinist. An actual person, with a violin. Not a CD, or the radio…Cecile walked by him in semi-shock, to Don's bed.

"Stop there," she heard him say softly as she reached the end of it, so she did. "Please turn around for me." Embarassed, she was glad of the candlelight as she pirouetted for him. "You're…stunning," he whispered. "Magnificent." Cecile was sure that she would die on the spot, listening to the tenderness in Don's voice. "These are for you," he said, and Cecile came closer to the head of the bed. He handed her what looked to be, in the dark, a dozen long-stemmed roses. Cecile buried her nose in them.

"Thank you," she whispered, almost unable to find her voice. "Thank you."

Relieved of the flowers, Don reached to the rolling table, now at the other side of the bed, and lifted a filled champagne glass. He offered it to Cecile, who shifted the flowers and accepted it. Then Don lifted another from the table for himself, and lifted it toward her in a toast. "To the most beautiful woman in the world."

Cecile knew she was blushing, as she clinked her glass with his and raised it to her mouth. The slight lifting of her head refocused the direction of her eyes, though, and she almost dropped everything. Standing in the farthest, darkest corner of the room, neatly in a row in matching tuxedos, were Alan, Larry, Colby, David — and her brother, Andrew. "Oh!" She pushed her knees into the bedframe to steady herself, and couldn't think of anything else to say, but didn't stop another "Oh!" from escaping.

Don laughed and took the glass from her, and felt her hand shaking. He set the glass down and touched her hand again. "It's all right. They've all had their shots."

Cecile lowered her gaze to Don, again. This time she really was speechless.

He smiled. "I wanted to take you dancing. You deserve to go dancing. This is the best I could do. I got some pinch dancers."

Cecile raised her free hand to her eye, sorry to lose the contact of Don's fingers, but caving in to necessity. Megan had put a lot of mascara on there, and she was not going through this…this absolute, incredible fantasy…as a raccoon.

The violinist segued into "Moonlight Seranade", and Alan approached her out of the darkness, smiling broadly. "You are a vision," he said, and held out an arm. "May I have this dance?"

Cecile lowered the roses back onto Don's lap, leaning over to kiss him briefly on the lips. "I love you," she whispered into his ear. When she straightened again, Megan was waiting to hand Don a camera. She briefly hugged Cecile. "Pose for pictures before everybody leaves. Charlie will want to see this." She smiled at Alan. "I'm off to see him now, so take your time." She melted into the background then, and there was a brief flash of light as she opened the door into the hospital corridor.

When the door had closed, and she was surrounded by candlelight again, Cecile walked around the bed to meet Alan. She placed one hand on his shoulder, the other on an arm he crooked around her waist, and she waltzed into the best date of her life.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

Alan opened the oven door and basted the turkey, again. It was Thursday, Thanksgiving. Charlie had been home for a week, and had seen one of the counselors on Megan's list twice already. He was still very quiet, sometimes to be point of being withdrawn, but he was making efforts, now. Efforts to eat regularly, efforts to talk to the frequent visitors, efforts to sleep. Some efforts were more successful than others, though, and he still needed the assistance of sleeping pills to make it through a night. Several of those nights were interrupted by nightmares, waking Alan down the hall and sometimes even Don downstairs. Things were going to take time.

Don had been home five days. After the first one, he was itching almost as badly to escape this prison as he had been to escape the hospital. At least he had a cast and crutches now; 'no weight bearing' and 'no stairs' were his only restrictions, so he got out of the house as often as he could. When there, he did laundry, waited on Charlie — even made a pumpkin pie for this dinner, yesterday. Alan didn't see how he was going to keep Don down for another two weeks — but he would try. That was his job, after all.

The swinging door from the dining room opened and Megan stepped through, sniffing the air appreciatively. "It smells wonderful in here, Alan. Are you sure I can't do something?"

Alan had known she would ask — he had known they all would — so he had added a leaf to the dining room table yesterday, and had it set with the Thanksgiving dishes before 8 a.m. this morning. He was having this dinner for them, after all, and he didn't want them to work. "Everything is under control here," he said. "Go back in the living room." He had heard loud laughter coming from there when she had opened the door. "What are they doing in there, anyway?"

She rolled her eyes. "Colby is telling Charlie about Don's big date, and Cecile is hearing the details for the first time, too — you know, how we almost had to pick the lock of her apartment to find out what size shoes to get; how David shattered the first champagne glasses on the sidewalk on the way in and you had to make a mad dash out for more while she was in the shower; how Andrew didn't fit in the rented tux and almost came in his jeans; how Cecile wanted more dances with Colby than anyone else…"

Alan laughed. "I think he might be embellishing the story a little."

"It was nice of you to invite Agent Terrace and his wife. This is their first Thanksgiving here in L.A., and they're too far from either family to go home. They were going to spend it alone. Did you know all that?"

Alan stirred a sweet potato casserole. "No. I just felt bad about hitting him with a frying pan."

Megan laughed and placed rolls on a baking sheet. Alan pretended not to notice that she was helping. "It was very generous of you all to come today. I'm sure you'd like to be with your families, but I really wanted to use the day the way it was intended — to say thank you to all the people who have helped so much these last few weeks."

Megan, finished with the rolls, walked to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer, then leaned against a counter facing Alan. "Generous of us? Alan, you're saving us. With the exception of Charlie, Don and Larry, we all have to work tomorrow — no road trips in our immediate future. If it wasn't for you, we'd probably be having Thanksgiving at Denny's"

Alan was appalled, and shuddered, slivering almonds onto the green beans. "It's a shame Andrew couldn't make it, but he knew last week that he would be working the holiday; that's why he made such an effort to come to the dance-a-thon."

Megan smiled. "Speaking of which. I had that roll of film developed. I should go use the evidence to keep Colby's story in line."

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Don and Charlie had insisted that Alan's place was still at the head of the table, and he stood to carve the turkey. As he did, he watched the nine other people at the table, passing dishes. Don's team: Megan, Colby, and David. The lovely Cecile. Larry, seated between Megan and Charlie. Jim Terrace and his wife, Linda. And his sons. Both of his sons. A little worse for wear, at the moment, but surrounded by people like these, there was only hope, for these boys. Only hope.

Alan found he had to concentrate on freeing the turkey drumstick Colby had laid first claim to, so that he wouldn't do something embarrassing, like cry. His attention was diverted further when Jim Terrace spoke.

"Mr. Eppes, I can't believe you made Okra. I certainly didn't expect that."

Alan smiled. "Alan. You're at my Thanksgiving table, and my name is Alan."

Jim grinned. "Alan, then. I really appreciate it."

Alan finally wrested the leg off and rewarded it to a beaming Colby. "Well, Jim, I was happy to do it. I spoke to Linda and she told me how much you miss that, from your Thanksgivings in Oklahoma — and I wanted you to see that I have many uses for frying pans."

Everyone at the table laughed and Alan momentarily put down his carving tools and raised his glass of wine. "My sons and I welcome you all to our home," he said. "Everyone here is part of this family." He looked from face to face, speaking deliberately. "You are each dear to me." His gaze lingered for a moment on Megan. "And none of you," he finally intoned, "have permission to eat Thanksgiving at Denny's ever again."

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FINIS

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**A/N: Well. That really took it out of me — and Charlie too. Imagine his dismay when I informed him that there will be a part III:**

Does Don accept A.D.?

Will Charlie ever pull himself together?

Can Alan reconcile his frying pan back to mere kitchen duty?

Look for answers to these and many more questions soon, in a Triology near you.


End file.
